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LEISUEE HOUES M TOWN 



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LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN 



''I 



..':^i*JJ' 



BY THE AUTHOR OF 

THE RECREATIONS OF A COUNTRY PARSON 





BOSTON: 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 

1874. 






? 



\ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by 

TiCKNOR AND FIELDS, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts 



Ag 9 8 7 



University Press: 

Welch, Bigelow, and CompanYj 

Cambridge. 



CONTENTS 



-•- 



CHAPTER I. 

PAOI 
CONCERNING THE PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN 7 

CHAPTER n. 
CONCERNING VEAL ; A DISCOURSE OF IMMATURITY . 16 

CHAPTER in. 
CONCERNING THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT 57 

CHAPTER IV. 
GONE 93 

CHAPTER V. 

CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM MORE MIGHT HAVE 

BEEN MADE 103 

CHAPTER VI. 

CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE : 
WITH SOME THOUGHTS ON THOSE WHO NEVER 
HAD A CHANCE 138 

CHAPTER VII. 
COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW 172 

CHAPTER VIII. 

CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION, WITH SOME 

THOUGHTS ON COWED PEOPLE 210 



vi CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER IX. 

PAGI 
CONCERNmG THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD .... 244 

CHAPTER X. 

IHE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND 274 

CHAPTER XL 
thorndale; or, the conflict of opinions . . . 295 

CHAPTER XH. 
concerning a great scotch preacher .... 334 

CHAPTER Xin. 
OULITA THE SERF 371 

CHAPTER XIY. 
scotch peculiarities 405 



conclusion 435 




CHAPTER I. 

CONCERNING THE PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS 

IN TOWN. 

HIS is Friday evening. It has been a 
gloomy November day. And now, about 
nine o'clock, I hear the wind moaning as 
if there were to be a stormy night. But 
the fire is blazing, and the curtains are drawn: and 
here, in this little room, once the study of a wit and a 
poet, things are almost as quiet as if it were miles away 
from the great city in which it is. You might hear an 
occasional shout, from a street which is not far distant : 
and I am aware of a sound which appears to originate 
in the beating of carpets in the lane behind this row of 
houses. But the door-bell, which rings perpetually in 
the forenoon, and very frequently in the evening, is not 
likely to be rung any more to-night by any one whose 
business is with me : and no humble parishioner, inter- 
rupting the thread of one's thoughts, is likely to come 
now upon his little errand to his minister. This is indeed 
an hour of leisure : and oh, what a rest and relief such 
an hour is, to the man who has it only now and then ! 

Both my sermons for Sunday are ready ; and they are 
in a drawer in this table on which I write. I have seen, 
I believe, every sick person in the congregation on some 
day during this week. As for the parish, that is by far 



8 CONCERNING THE 

too large and populous to be personally overtaken by any 
single clergyman ; but I have the great comfort of being 
aided by a machinery of district visitation, which does not 
suffer one poor person in the parish to feel that he is for- 
gotten in his parish church. I cannot, at this moment, 
think of any one matter of ministerial duty which de- 
mands instant attention : though of course I have the 
vague sense, which I suppose will never be absent, that 
there are many duties impending ; many things w^hich 
Monday morning at the latest will bring. Surely, then, 
if such are ever to come in a large town parish, here is 
one of my leisure hours. 

When a country parson, leaving a little rustic cure, 
undertakes the charge of such a parish, if he be a man 
whose heart is in his work, he is quite certain greatly to 
overwork himself. It is indeed a total change, from the 
quiet of a country parish, where dwellings are dotted 
singly here and there, with great fields between them, 
to the town, where street after street of tall houses is 
filled with your parishioners, all entitled to some measure 
of your care and thought. And with that change, there 
comes a sudden acceleration of the wheels of life. You 
begin to live in a hurry. Your mind gets into a feverish 
state. You live under a constant feeling of pressure. 
You think, while you are doing anything, that something 
else is waiting to be done. It need not be said that such 
a feeling is, with most men, quite fatal to doing one's 
best : more particularly with the pen. And if you be of 
an anxious temperament, the time never comes in which 
you can sit down and rest, feeling that your work is done. 
You sit down sometimes and rest, through pure fatigue 
and exhaustion : but all the while you are thinking of 
something else which demands to be done, and which you 



PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN. 9 

are anxious to do. You will often wish for the precious 
power possessed by some men, of taking things easily 
you may even sometimes sigh for the robust resolution 
of Lord Chancellor Thurlow. " I divide my work," he 
said, " into three parts. Part I do : part does itself : 
and part I leave undone." But many men could not 
for their lives resolve to do this last. They go with a 
hearty will at their work, till body and mind break 
down. 

There is no work so hard, to a conscientious man, as 
that which he may make as easy or as hard as he chooses. 
It is a great blessing to have one's task set ; and to be 
able to feel, when you have done it, that your work is 
done, and that you may rest with a clear conscience. 
But in the Church, that can never be. There is always 
something more that might be done. What clergyman 
can say that he has done for the good of his parish all 
that is possible for man to do ; — that there is no new 
religious or benevolent agency which by energy yet more 
unsparing might be set in operation ? It may here be 
said, that I do not in any degree approve the system of 
trying to dragoon people, whether poor or rich, into 
attention to their rehgious duties and interests, which is 
attempted by some good people whose zeal exceeds their 
discretion : and that I have no fancy for making a church, 
what with perpetual meetings, endless societies, and ever- 
recurring collections of money for this and that purpose, 
look like nothing so much as a great cotton-mill, with 
countless wheels whirring away, and dazing the brain 
by their ceaseless motion. It is fit to recognize the fact, 
that the poorest folk are responsible beings ; and that 
intelligent artisans will not submit to be treated like chil- 
dren, even by people who wish to make them good chil- 



10 CONCERNING THE 

dren. And you know that a boy, who has learnt to swina 
by the aid of corks and bladders, is very apt to sink when 
that support is taken away. His power of swimming is 
not worth much. It seems to me to be even so with that 
form of religion, which can be kept alive only by a con- 
stant series of visits, exhortations, tracts, and week-day 
church-services. I venture to judge no man : but give 
me, say I, not the sickly exotic, but the hearty evergreen, 
that can bear frosts and winds. But the faithful clergy- 
man, even trying to hold this principle in view, will find, 
in a large parish in a great city, work that would occupy 
him profitably, were each of his days as long as a week, 
and had he the strength of half a score of men. I firmly 
believe, that almost all the clergymen I know do day 
by day their very utmost to overtake that overwhelm- 
ing duty. And now and then, there comes a special 
sense of the clergyman's weighty responsibility, and of 
the momentous consequences that may depend upon his 
exertions : and under that stimulus, resolving " to spend 
and be spent " in the work to wliich he has given him- 
self, you will find him laboring in a fashion that endan- 
gers health and life. 

Now, it is not right to do that. Even setting apart the 
consideration of the duty he owes his children, his duty 
to the Church is to work in that fashion in which he may 
hope to labor longest and most efiiciently. And that 
fashion is not the breathless and feverish one. Yet 
nothing but constant watchfulness and firmness can pre- 
vent the town clergyman's life from growing one of 
chronic hurry and weariness. It is not merely his 
preaching, and his preparation for preaching: but the 
other calls of duty are innumerable. Pound after pound 
is added, till the camel labors along with weary foot : or 



PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN. 11 

even till the camel's back is broken. It is the rule in 
large towns, so far as I have known them, that the clergy 
shall be overwrought. Not that they are overdriven 
by the unreasonable expectations of their parishioners ; 
though that may sometimes be the case : but that they 
are spurred on by the exactions of their own conscience. 
Then, every now and then, you will find one making a 
stand against this over-pressure : feeling that he is break- 
inor down ; and determining? that he must have some 
leisure. You will find him beginning to take an hour's 
daily walk ; or resolutely setting himself to maintain 
some acquaintance with the literature of the day. You 
will find him resolving to see a little of his fellow-crea- 
tures, besides what he sees of them in the way of his 
duty ; and wondering if many men know what it is to 
feel, for days together, every word they speak an effort, 
and almost every step they walk. But all this is as 
w^hen you determine to break yourself of the bad habit 
of walking too fast. You are walking along at five miles 
an hour. You pull up, and resolve you shall walk slowly. 
You set off at a moderate pace. But in a few minutes 
you cease to think of the rate at which you are progress- 
ing: and in a quarter of an hour you find of a sudden 
that you are going on at your old unreasonable speed 
again. 

Going through your duty at this high pressure, you 
will, in a few months, find what will follow. Your brain 
gets fevered : your mind is confused : you cannot take a 
calm and deliberate view of any large subject : and by 
degrees your heart (I speak literally, not morally) tells 
you that this will not do. You seem almost to have lost 
the power of sleeping. And you find, that if you are to 
live and labor much longer in this world, vou must do 



12 CONCERNING THE 

one of two things : either jou must go back again to the 
country, or you must make a definitive arrangement that 
you shall have some appreciable amount of leisure in 
town. You may probably find, on looking back, that 
for a long time you have had none at all : except, in- 
deed, in that autumnal holiday, which will not suffice to 
keep up for a whole year's work : and whose good effect 
you have probably used up within three weeks after its 
close. Yes, you must have leisure : a little of it every 
day : a half-holiday at least once a week. And I do not 
call it satisfactory leisure, when, at the close of a jading 
^^y? you sit down, wearied beyond talking, reading, or 
thinking: and feeling the presence even of your chil- 
dren too much for your shaken nerves. I call it leisure, 
when you can sit down in the evening, tired indeed, but 
not exhausted beyond chasing your little boy or girl about 
the lobby, and thinking of the soft green turf of quieter 
days. I call it leisure to sit down in your easy-chair by 
the fireside, and to feel that you may peacefully think, and 
dream if you please : that you may look vacantly into 
the fire : that you may read the new review or magazine 
by little bits: that you may give your mind total rest. 
And to this end, let us fix it in our remembrance, that all 
our Master requires of us is to do what w^e can : and 
that if after we have done our utmost, there still remains 
much more we would wish to do, we must train ourselves 
to look at it without disquiet, even as we train ourselves 
to be submissive in the presence of the inexplicable mys- 
teries and the irremediable evils which are inherent in 
the present system of things. No doubt, it is hard to do 
this ; but it is the clergyman's duty to do it. You have 
no more right to commit suicide by systematically over- 
tasking your constitution, than by swifter and coarser 



PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN. 13 

means. Life is given to you as a trust to make the best 
of; and probably the worst you can make of it is to cut 
it short, or to embitter it by physical exhaustion and de- 
pression. 

I dare say many clergymen with large parishes have 
known what it is to delight in a day of dreadful rain and 
hurricane : I mean a day when chimney-pots and slates 
are flying about the streets; and when no question can 
be raised, even by the most exacting moral sense, as to 
whether it is possible to go out or not. A forenoon of 
leisure comes so very seldom, that it is very precious and 
enjoyable when it comes. The leisure hours commonly 
attainable are in the evening. If you sit at your desk 
from ten o'clock in the morning till one or two in the 
afternoon : and if vou then go out to your pastoral work 
till six : you may very fairly lay it down as a general 
rule, that at six the day's work shall be deemed over. 
In addition to this, it may be well to make the afternoon 
of Saturday a time of recreation. You will be much 
fitter for your Sunday work, which implies a good deal 
of physical fatigue as well as mental wear. And I begin 
to doubt if it be good or safe to begin the round of labor 
again on Monday after breakfast : and to think that pos- 
sibly as much work would be done, and better done, if 
the forenoon of that day were given to recruiting one's 
energies after the Sunday duty. And I am not claiming 
these seasons of leisure for the clergymen, merely for 
Aristotle's reason : merely because " the end of work is 
to enjoy leisure : " merely because leisure is pleasant, 
and the hard-working parson has earned it fairly. I 
think not merely of the pleasure of the pastor, but of 
the profit of the flock. I do not think it expedient that 
a Christian congregation should get almost all its relig- 



14 CONCERNING THE 

ious instruction from a fevered and overdriven mind. I 
have been struck, in listening to the preaching of one or 
two very able and very laborious friends, by a certain 
lack of calmness and sobriety of thought : by a some- 
thing that reminded one of the atmosphere of a hot- 
house, and that seemed undefinably inconsistent with the 
realities of daily life. And it seemed to me that all this 
came of the fact, that they lived, worked, and wrote, in 
chronic excitement and hurry. 

I trust that my non-clerical readers will pardon all this 
professional matter: it is a comfort to talk out one's mind 
even to friends whom one will never see. I dare say 
discerning folk will know, that the writer has been de- 
scribing his own constant temptation ; and that, however 
needful he may feel these seasons of rest to be, it is only 
now and then that he can train himself to take them. 
And he has found that nothing gives the mind more 
effectual rest, than change of employment. You have 
heard, doubtless, of that mill-horse, which all days of the 
week but Sunday was engaged in walking round and 
round a certain narrow circle. You may remember 
what was the Sunday's occupation of that sagacious 
creature. An unthinking person might have surmised 
that the horse, which had perpetually to walk on working 
days, would have chosen on its day of rest to lie still and 
do nothing. But the horse knew better. It spent Sun- 
day in walking round and round, in the opposite direc- 
tion from that in which it walked on week-days. It 
found rest, in short, not in idleness ; but in variation 
of employment. I commend that horse. T have tried 
to do something analogous to what it did. These essays 
have been to me a pleasant change, from the writing of 
many sermons. And even in leisure hours, if it be (as 



PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN. 15 

Sydney Smith said) " the nature of the animal to write/' 
the pen will be taken up naturally and habitually. 

I can say sincerely, that more important duties have 
never been postponed to the production of these chap- 
ters : and I please myself with the belief, that the handa 
into which this volume is likely to fall, will not be those 
of total strangers. You may perhaps find, my friendly 
reader, that these essays of an old friend, whom you 
knew in the days when he was a country parson, have 
somewhat changed their character, in consistence with 
his total change of life. But I have reason to cherish 
a quiet trust, that they have done good to some of my 
fellow-creatures. I suppose the like happens to all au- 
thors, who write in sincerity and in kindness of heart : 
but I cannot forget what numbers of men and women, 
otherwise unknown, from either side of the Atlantic, have 
cheered and encouraged the writer, sometimes in weary 
hours, by thanking him for some little good impression 
left by these pages upon heart and life. I have not 
been able to forego the great delight of trying to pro- 
duce what might afford some pleasure and profit to 
friends far beyond the boundaries of ray parish : nor 
have I been able to think that it was my duty to 
do so. 




CHAPTER 11. 
CONCERNING VEAL: 

A DISCOURSE OF IMMATURITY. 

HE man who, in bis progress through life, 
has listened with attention to the conversa- 
tion of human beings ; who has carefully 
read the writings of the best English au- 
thors ; who has made himself well acquainted with the 
history and usages of his native land ; and who has 
meditated much on all he has seen and read ; must 
have been led to the firm conviction that by Veal, 
those who speak the English language intend to denote 
the flesh of calves ; and that by a calf is intended an 
immature ox or cow. A calf is a creature in a tempo- 
rary and progressive stage of its being. It will not 
always be a calf; if it live long enough, it will as- 
suredly cease to be a calf. And if impatient man, arrest- 
ing the creature at that stage, should consign it to the 
hands of him whose business it is to convert the sentient 
animal into the impassive and unconscious meat, the nu- 
triment which the creature will afford will be nothing 
more than immature beef. There may be many qualities 
of Veal ; the calf which yields it may die at very differ- 
ent stages in its physical and moral development ; but 
provided only it die as a calf — provided only that its 



CONCERNING YEAL. 17 

meat can fitly be styled Veal — this will be character- 
istic of it, that the meat shall be immature meat. It 
may be very good, very nutritious and palatable ; some 
people may like it better than beef, and may feed upon 
it with the liveliest satisfaction ; but when it is fairly and 
deliberately put to us, it must be admitted even by such 
as like Veal the best, that Veal is but an immature pro- 
duction of nature. I take Veal, therefore, as the em- 
blem of Immaturity ; of that which is now in a stage 
out of which it must grow ; of that which, as time goes 
on, will grow older, w^ill probably grow better, will cer- 
tainly grow very different. That is what I mean by 
Veal. 

And now, my reader and friend, you wnll discern the 
subject about which I trust we are to have some pleasant 
and not unprofitable thought together. You will readily 
believe that my subject is not that material Veal which 
may be beheld and purchased in the butcher's shops. I 
am not now to treat of its varied qualities, of the suste- 
nance which it yields, of the price at which it may be 
procured, or of the laws according to which that price 
rises and falls. I am' not going to take you to the green 
fields in which the creature which yielded the veal was 
fed, or to discourse of the blossoming hawthorn hedges 
from whose midst it was reft away. Neither shall I 
speak of the rustic life, the toils, cares, and fancies of 
the farm-house near which it spent its brief lifetime. 
The Veal of which I intend to speak is Moral Veal, or 
(to speak with entire accuracy). Veal Intellectual, Moral, 
and ^sthetical. By Veal I understand the immature 
productions of the human mind ; immature compositions, 
immature opinions, feelings, and tastes. I wish to think 
of the work, the views, the fancies, the emotions, which 
2 



18 CONCERNING VEAL. 

are yielded by the human soul in its immatuie stages 5 
while the calf (so to speak) is only growing into the ox ; 
while the clever boy, with his absurd opinions and fever- 
ish feelings and fancies, is developing into the mature 
and sober-minded man. And if I could but rightly set 
out the thoughts which have at many different times 
occurred to me on this matter, if one could catch and fix 
the vague glimpses and passing intuitions of solid un- 
changing truth, if the subject on which one has thought 
long and felt deeply were always that on which one could 
write best, and could bring out to the sympathy of others 
what a man himself has felt, what an excellent essay this 
would be ! But it will not be so ; for as I try to grasp 
the thoughts I would set out, they melt away and elude 
me. It is like trying to catch and keep the rainbow 
hues you have seen the sunshine cast upon the spray of 
a waterfall, when you try to catch the tone, the thoughts, 
the feelings, the atmosphere of early youth. 

There can be no question at all as to the fact, that 
clever young men and women, when their minds begin 
to open, when they begin to think for themselves, do pass 
through a stage of mental development which they by 
and by quite outgrow ; and entertain opinions and be- 
liefs, and feel emotions, on which afterwards they look 
back with no sympathy or approval. This is a fact as 
certain as that a calf grows into an ox, or that veal, if 
spared to grow, will become beef. But no analogy be- 
tween the material and the moral must be pushed too far. 
There are points of difference between material and 
moral Veal. A calf knows it is a calf. It may think 
itself bigger and wiser than an ox, but it knows it is 
not an ox. And if it be a reasonable calf, modest, and 



CONCERNING YEAL. 19 

free from prejudice, it is well aware that the joints it 
will yield after its demise, will be very different from 
those of the stately and well-consolidated ox which 
ruminates in the rich pasture near it. But the human 
boy often thinks he is a man, and even more than a 
man. He fancies that his mental stature is as big and 
as solid as it will ever become. He fancies that his 
mental productions — the poems and essays he writes, 
the political and social views he forms, the moods of 
feeling with which he regards things — are just what 
they may always be, just what they ought always to be. 
If spared in this world, and if he be one of those whom 
years make wiser, the day comes w^hen he looks back 
with amazement and shame on those early mental pro- 
ductions. He discerns now how immature, absurd, and 
extravagant they were ; in brief, how vealy. But at the 
time, he had not the least idea that they were so. He 
had entire confidence in himself; not a misgiving as to 
his own ability and wisdom. You, clever young studenr 
of eighteen years old, when you wrote your prize essay, 
fancied that in thought and style it was very like Macau- 
lay ; and not Macaulay in that stage of vealy brilliancy 
in which he wrote his essay on Milton, not Macaulay the 
fairest and most promising of calves, but Macaulay the 
stateliest and most beautiful of oxen. Well, read over 
your essay now at thirty, and tell us what you think of 
it. And you, clever, warm-hearted, enthusiastic young 
preacher of twenty-four, wrote your sermon ; it was very 
ingenious, very brilliant in style, and you never thought, 
but that it would be felt by mature-minded Christian 
people as suiting their case, as true to their inmost ex- 
perience. You could not see why you might not preach 
as well as a man of forty. And if people in middle age 



20 CONCERNING YEAL. 

had complained that, eloquent as your preaching was, 
they found it suited them better and profited them more 
to listen to the plainer instructions of some good man 
with gray hair, you would not have understood their feel- 
ing ; and you might perhaps have attributed it to many 
motives rather than the true one. But now, at five-and- 
thirty, find out the yellow manuscript, and read it care- 
fully over ; and I will venture to say, that if you were a 
really clever and eloquent young man, writing in an am- 
bitious and rhetorical style, and prompted to do so by the 
spontaneous fervor of your heart and readiness of your 
imagination, you will feel now little sympathy even with 
the literary style of that early composition ; you will see 
extravagance and bombast where once you saw only elo- 
quence and graphic power. And as for the graver and 
more important matter of the thought of the discourse, I 
think you will be aware of a certain undefinable shallow- 
ness and crudity. Your growing experience has borne 
you beyond it. Somehow you feel it does not come home 
tc you, and suit you as you would wish it should. It will 
not do. That old sermon you cannot preach now, till you 
have entirely recast and rewritten it. But you had no 
such notion when you wrote the sermon. You were 
satisfied with it. You thought it even better than the 
di(]courses of men as clever as yourself, and ten or fifteen 
years older. Your case was as though the youthful calf 
should walk beside the sturdy ox, and think itself rather 
biofojer. 

Let no clever young reader fancy from what has been 
said, that I am about to make an onslaught upon clever 
young men. I remember too distinctly how bitter and 
indeed ferocious I used to feel, about eleven or twelve 
years ago, when I have heard men of more than middle 



CONCERNING VEAL. 21 

age and less than middling ability speak with contemptu- 
ous depreciation of the productions and doings of men 
considerably their juniors, and vastly their superiors; 
describing them as hoys^ and as clever lads, with looks 
of dark malignity. There are few more disgusting sights, 
than the envy and jealousy of their juniors, which may 
be seen in various malicious, commonplace old men ; as 
there is hardly a more beautiful and pleasing sight than 
the old man hailing, and counselling, and encouraging the 
youthful genius which he knows far surpasses his own. 
And I5 my young friend of two-and-twenty, who relatively 
to you, may be regarded as old, am going to assume no 
preposterous airs of superiority. I do not claim to be a 
bit wiser than you ; all I claim is to be older. I have 
outgrown your stage ; but I was once such as you, and 
all my sympathies are with you yet. But it is a difficulty 
in the way of the essayist, and, indeed, of all who set out 
opinions which they wish to be received and acted on by 
their fellow-creatures, that they seem, by the very act of 
offering advice to others, to claim to be wiser and better 
than those whom they advise. But in reality it is not so. 
The opinions of the essayist or of the preacher, if deserv- 
ing of notice at all, are so because of their inherent truth, 
and not because he expresses them. Estimate them for 
yourself, and give them the weight which you think their 
due. And be sure of this, that the writer, if earnest and 
sincere, addressed all he said to himself as much as to any 
one else. This is the thing which redeems all didactic 
writing or speaking from the charge of offensive assump- 
tion and self-assertion. It is not for the preacher, 
whether of moral or religious truth, to address his fel- 
lows as outside sinners, worse than himself, and needing 
to be reminded of that of which he does not need to be re- 



22 CONCERNING VEAL. 

minded. No, the earnest preacher preaches to himself as 
much as to any in the congregation ; it is from the picture 
ever before him in his own weak and wayward heart, that 
he learns to reach and describe the hearts of others, if in- 
deed he do so at all. And it is the same with lesser things. 

It is curious and it is instructive to remark how 
heartily men, as they grow towards middle age, despise 
themselves as they were a few years since. It is a bitter 
thing for a man to confess that he is a fool ; but it costs 
little effort to declare that he was a fool, a good while 
ago. Indeed, a tacit compliment to his present self is 
involved in the latter confession ; it suggests the reflec- 
tion what progress he has made, and how vastly he has 
improved, since then. When a man informs us that he 
was a very silly fellow in the year 1851, it is assumed 
that he is not a very silly fellow in the year 1861. It is 
as when the merchant with ten thousand a year, sitting 
at his sumptuous table, and sipping his '41 claret, tells 
you how, when he came as a raw lad from the country, 
he used often to have to go without his dinner. He 
knows that the plate, the wdne, the massively elegant 
apartment, the silent servants so alert yet so impassive, 
will appear to join in chorus with the obvious suggestion, 
" You see he has not to go without his dinner now ! " Did 
you ever, when twenty years old, look back at the diary 
you kept when you were sixteen ; or when twenty-five 
at the diary you kept when twenty ; or at thirty, at the 
diary you kept when twenty -five ? Was not your feehng 
a singular mixture of humiliation and self-complacency ? 
What extravagant, silly stufi* it seemed that you had thus 
written five years before ! What Yeal ; and oh what a 
calf he must have been who wrote it ! It is a difficult 



CONCERNING VEAL. 23 

question, to which the answer cannot be elicited, Who ia 
the greatest fool in this world ? But every candid and 
sensible man of middle age, knows thoroughly well the 
answer to the question, Who was the greatest fool that 
he himself ever knew ? And after all, it is your diary 
especially if you were wont to introduce into it poetical 
remarks and moral reflections, that will mainly help you 
to the humiliating conclusion. Other things, some of 
which I have already named, will point in the same 
direction. Look at the prize essays you wrote when 
you were a boy at school ; look even at your earlier 
prize essays written at college (though of these last I 
have something to say hereafter) ; look at the letters you 
wrote home when away at school or even at college, es- 
pecially if you were a clever boy, trying to write in a 
graphic and witty fashion ; and if you have reached sense 
at last (which some, it may be remarked, never do), I 
think you will blush even through the unblushing front 
of manhood, and think what a terrific, unutterable, con- 
ceited, intolerable blockhead you were. It is not till peo- 
ple attain somewhat mature years that they can rightly 
understand the wonderful forbearance their parents must 
have shown in listening patiently to the frightful nonsense 
they talked and wrote. I have already spoken of ser- 
mons. If you go early into the Church, say at twenty- 
three or twenty-four, and write sermons regularly and 
diligently, you know what landmarks they will be of 
your mental progress. The first runnings of the stream 
are turbid, but it clears itself into sense and taste month 
by month and year by year. You wrote many sermons 
in your first year or two ; you preached them with entire 
confidence in them, and they did really keep up the at- 
tention of the congregation in a remarkable way. You 



24 CONCERNING VEAL. 

accumulate in a box a store of that valuable literature 
and theology, and when by and by you go to another 
parish, you have a comfortable feeling that you have a 
capital stock to go on with. You think that any Mon- 
day morning when you have the prospect of a very busy 
week, or when you feel very weary, you may resolve 
hat you shall write no sermon that week, but just go 
and draw forth one from the box. I have already said 
what you will probably find, even if you draw forth ? 
discourse which cost much labor. You cannot use it as 
it stands. Possibly it may be structural and essential 
Veal : the whole framework of thought may be imma- 
ture. Possibly it may be Veal only in style; and by 
cutting out a turgid sentence here and there, and above 
all, by cutting out all the passages which you thought 
particularly eloquent, the discourse may do yet. But 
even then, you cannot give it with much confidence. 
Your mind can yield something better than that now. 
I imagine how a fine old orange-tree, that bears oranges 
with the thinnest possible skin and with no pips, juicy 
and rich, might feel that it has outgrown the fruit of its 
first years, when the skin w^as half an inch thick, the 
pips innumerable, and the eatable portion small and poor. 
It is with a feeling such as that that you read over your 
early sermon. Still, mingling wdth the sense of shame, 
there is a certain satisfaction. You have not been stand- 
ing still ; you have been getting on. And we always like 
to think that. 

What is it that makes intellectual Veal ? What are 
the things about a composition which stamp it as such ? 
Well, it is a certain character in thought and style hard 
to define, but strongly felt by such as discern its presence 



CONCERNING VEAL. 25 

at all. It is strongly felt by professors reading the com- 
positions of their students, especially the compositions of 
the cleverest students. It is strongly felt by educated 
folk of middle age, in listening to the sermons of young 
pulpit orators, especially of such as think for themselves, 
of such as aim at a high standard of excellence, of such 
as have in them the makings of striking and eloquent 
preachers. Dull and stupid fellows never deviate into 
the extravagance and absurdity which I specially under- 
stand by Veal. They plod along in a humdrum manner : 
there is no poetry in their soul ; none of those ambitious 
stirrings which lead the man who has in him the true 
spark of genius to try for grand things and incur severe 
and ignominious tumbles. A heavy dray-horse, walking 
along the roadj may possibly advance at a very lagging 
pace, or may even stand still ; but whatever he may do, 
he is not likely to jump violently over the hedge, or to 
gallop off at twenty-five miles an hour. It must be a 
thorough-bred who will go wrong in that grand fashion. 
And there are intellectual absurdities and extravagances 
which hold out hopeful promise of noble doings yet : the 
eagle, which will breast the hurricane yet, may meet 
various awkward tumbles before he learns the fashion 
in which to use those iron wings. But the substantial 
goose, which probably escapes those tumbles in trying to 
fly, will never do anything very magnificent in the way 
of flying. The man who in his early days writes in a 
very inflated and bombastic style, will gradually sober 
down into good sense and accurate taste, still retaining 
something of liveliness and eloquence. But expect little 
of the man who as a boy was always sensible, and never 
bombastic. He will grow awfully dry. He is sure to 
fall into the unpardonable sin of tiresomeness. The rule 



26 CONCERNING VEAT.. 

has exceptions ; but the earliest productions of a man of 
real genius are almost always crude, flippant, and affect- 
edly smart ; or else turgid and extravagant in a high 
degree. Witness Mr. Disraeli ; witness Sir E. B. Lyt- 
ton ; witness even Macaulay. The man who as a mere 
boy writes something very sound and sensible, will prob- 
ably never become more than a dull, sensible, common- 
place man. Many people can say, as they bethink 
themselves of their old college companions, that those 
who wrote with good sense and good taste at twenty, 
have mostly settled down into the dullest and baldest of 
prosers ; while such as dealt in bombastic flourishes and 
absurd ambitiousness of style, have learned as time went 
on to prune their early luxuriances, while still retaining 
something of raciness, interest, and ornament. 

I have been speaking very generally of the character- 
istics of Veal in composition. It is difficult to give any 
accurate description of it that shall go into minuter de- 
tails. Of course it is easy to think of little external 
marks of the beast — that is, the calf. It is Veal in 
style when people, writing prose, think it a fine thing to 
write o'er instead of over^ ne'er instead of never, poesie 
instead of poetry^ and methinks under any circumstances 
whatsoever. References to the heart are generally of 
the nature of veal, also allusions to the mysterious throb- 
bings and yearnings of our nature. The word grand has 
of late come to excite a strong suspicion of Veal ; and 
when I read the other day in a certain poem something 
about a great grand man, I concluded that the writer of 
that poem is meanwhile a great grand calf. The only 
case in which the words may properly be used together 
is in speaking of your great grandfather. To talk about 



CONCERNING VEAL. . 27 

mine affections, meaning my affections, is Veal ; and mine 
honnie love was decided Veal, though it was written by 
Charlotte Bronte. To say mayhap, when you mean per- 
haps, is Veal. So is it also to talk of human ken, when 
you mean human knowledge. To speak of something 
higher and holier is invariably Veal : and it is usually 
Veal to speak of something deeper. Wife mine is Veal, 
though it stands in The Caxtons. I should rather like to 
see the man who in actual life is accustomed to address 
his spouse in that fashion. To say N^oi, oh never, shall 
we do so and so, is outrageous Veal. Sylvan grove or 
sylvan vale in ordinary conversation is Veal. The word 
glorious should be used with caution ; when applied to 
trees, mountains, or the like, there is a strong suspicion 
of Veal about it. But one feels that in saying these 
things we are not getting at the essence of Veal. It is 
Veal in thought that is essential Veal, and that is very 
hard to define. Beyond extravagant language, beyond 
absurd fine things, it lies in a certain lack of reality and 
sobriety of sense and view — in a certain indefinable 
jejuneness in the mental fare provided, which makes 
mature men feel that somehow it does not satisfy their 
cravings. You know what I mean better than I can 
express it. You have seen and heard a young preacher, 
with a rosy face and an unlined brow, preaching about 
the cares and trials of life. Well, you just feel at once 
he knows nothing about them. You feel that all this ia 
at second-hand. He is saying all this because he sup- 
poses it is the right thing to say. Give me the pilot to 
direct me who has sailed through the difficult channel 
many a time himself! Give me the friend to sympathize 
with me in sorrow, who has felt the like. There is a 
hoUownesSj a certain want, in the talk about much trib- 



28 CONCERNING YEAL. 

ulation of the very cleverest man who has never felt 
any great sorrow at all. The great force and value of 
all teaching lie in the amount of personal experience 
which is embodied in it. You feel the difference be- 
tween the production of a wonderfully clever boy and 
of a mature man when you read the first canto of Childe 
Harold and then read Philip van Artevelde. I do not 
say but that the boy's production may have a liveliness 
and interest beyond the man's. Veal is in certain re- 
spects superior to beef, though beef is best on the whole, 
I have heard vealy preachers whose sermons kept up 
breathless attention.- From the first word to the last of 
a sermon which was unquestionable Veal, I have wit- 
nessed an entire congregation listen with that audible 
hush you know. It was very different indeed from the 
state of matters when a humdrum old gentleman was 
preaching, every word spoken by whom was the maturest 
sense, expressed in Avords to which the most fastidious 
taste could have taken no exception ; but then the whole 
thing was sleepy ; it was a terrible effort to attend. In 
the case of the Veal there was no effort at all. I defy 
you to help attending. But then you sat in pain. Every 
second sentence there was some outrageous offence against 
good taste ; every third statement was absurd or over- 
drawn or almost profane. You felt occasional thrills of 
pure disgust and horror, and you were in terror what 
might come next. One thing which tended to carry all 
this off was the manifest confidence and earnestness of 
the speaker. Ife did not think it Veal that he was say- 
ing. And though great consternation was depicted on 
the faces of some of the better educated people in church, 
you could see that a very considerable part of the con- 
gregation did not think it Veal either. There can be no 



CONCERNING YEAL. 29 

doubt, my middle-aged friend, if you could but give youi 
early sermons now with the confidence and fire of the 
time when you wrote them, they would make a deep 
impression on many people jet But it is simply impos- 
sible for you to give them ; and if you should force your- 
self some rainy Sunday to preach one of them, you would 
give it with such a sense of its errors, and with such an 
absence of corresponding feeling, that it would fall very 
flat and dead. Your views are maturing : your taste ia 
growing fastidious ; the strong things you once said you 
could not bring yourself to say now. If you could preach 
those old sermons, there is no doubt they would go down 
with the mass of uncultivated folk, — go down better than 
your mature and reasonable ones. We have all known 
such cases as that of a young preacher who, at twenty- 
five, in his days of Veal, drew great crowds to the church 
at which he preached ; and who at thirty -five, being a 
good deal tamed and sobered, and in the judgment of 
competent judges vastly improved, attracted no more than 
a respectable congregation. A very great and eloquent 
preacher lately lamented to me the uselessness of his 
store of early discourses. If he could but get rid of his 
present standard of what is right and good in thought 
and language, and preach them with the enchaining fire 
with which he preached them once ! For many hearers 
remain immature, though the preacher has matured. 
Young people are growing up, and there are people 
whose taste never ripens beyond the enjoyment of Veal. 
There is a period in the mental development of those 
who will be ablest and maturest, at which vealy thought 
and language are accepted as the best. Veal will be 
highly appreciated by sympathetic calves ; and the great- 
est men, with rare exceptions, are calves in jouth, while 



30 CONCERNING VEAL. 

many human beings are calves forever. And here I 
may remark, as something which has afforded me conso- 
lation on various occasions within the last year, that it 
seems unquestionable that sermons which are utterly 
revolting to people of taste and sense, have done much 
good to large masses of those people in whom common 
sense is most imperfectly developed, and in whom tasti 
is not developed at all ; and accordingly, wherever one 
is convinced of the sincerity of the individuals, however 
foolish and uneducated, who go about pouring forth thos^ 
violent, exaggerated, and all but blasphemous discourses 
of which I have read accounts in the newspapers, one 
would humbly hope that a Power which works by many 
means, would bring about good even through an instru- 
mentality which it is hard to contemplate without some 
measure of horror. The impression produced by most 
things in this world is relative to the minds on which the 
impression is produced. A coarse ballad, deficient in 
rhyme and rhythm, and only half decent, will keep up 
the attention of a rustic group to whom you might read 
from In Memoriam in vain. A waistcoat of glaring 
scarlet will be esteemed by a country bumpkin a garment 
every way preferable to one of aspect more subdued. 
A nigger melody will charm many a one who would 
yawn at Beethoven. You must have rough means to 
move rough people. The outrageous revival-orator may 
do good to people to whom Bishop Wilberforce or Dr. 
Caird might preach to no purpose ; and if real good 
be done, by whatever means, all right-minded people 
should rejoice to hear of it. 

And this leads to an important practical question, on 
which men at different periods of life will never agree. 



CONCERNING VEAL. SI 

When shall thought be regarded as mature ? Is there a 
standard by which we can ascertain beyond question 
whether a composition be Veal or Beef? I sigh for fixity 
and assurance in matters aesthetical. It is vexatious 
that what I think very good my friend Smith thinks very 
bad. It is vexatious that what strikes me as supreme 
and unapproachable excellence, strikes another person at 
least as competent to form an opinion, as poor. And I am 
angry with myself when I feel that I honestly regard as 
inflated commonplace and mystical jargon, what a man as 
old and (let us say) nearly as wise as myself thinks the 
utterance of a prophet. You know how, when you con- 
template the purchase of a horse, you lead him up to the 
measuring-bar, and there ascertain the precise number of 
bands and inches which he stands. How have I lono^ed for 
the means of subjecting the mental stature of human beings 
to an analogous process of measurement ! Oh for some 
recognized and unerring gauge of mental calibre ! It 
would be a grand thing if somewhere in a very conspic- 
uous position — say on the site of the National Gallery 
at Charing-cross — there were a pillar erected, graduated 
by some new Fahrenheit, on which we could measure the 
height of a man's mind. How delightful it would be to 
drag up some pompous pretender who passes off at once 
upon himself and others as a profound and able man, 
and make him measure his height upon that pillar, and 
understand beyond all cavil what a pigmy he is ! And 
how pleasant, too, it would be to bring up some man of 
unacknowledged genius, and make the world see the 
reach of his intellectual stature ! The mass of educated 
people ev.en are so incapable of forming an estimate of a 
man's ability, that it would be a blessing if men could 
be sent out into the world with the stamp upon them, 



32 CONCERNING VEAL. 

telling what are their weight and value, plain for every 
one to see. But of course there are manj ways in 
which a book, sermon, or essay, may be bad without be- 
ing Vealy. It may be dull^ stupid, illogical, and the like, 
and yet have nothing of boyishness about it. It may be 
insufferably bad, yet quite mature. Beef may be bad, 
and yet undoubtedly beef. And the question now is, not 
so much whether there be a standard of what is in a 
literary sense good or bad, as whether there be a stand- 
ard of what is Veal and what is Beef. And there is a 
great difficulty here. Is a thing to be regarded as mature 
when it suits your present taste ; when it is approved by 
your present deliberate judgment ? For your taste is al- 
ways changing : your standard is not the same for three 
successive years of your early youth. The Veal you now 
despise you thought Beef when you wrote it. And so, 
too, with the productions of other men. You cannot read 
now without amazement the books which used to enchant 
you as a child. I remember wdien I used to read Her- 
vey's Meditations wdth great delight. That was w^hen 
I was about five years old. A year or two later I 
greatly affected Macpherson's translation of Ossian. It 
is not so very long since I felt the liveliest interest in 
Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy, Let me confess that I 
retain a kindly feeling towards it yet; and that I am 
glad to see that some hundreds of thousands of readers 
appear to be still in the stage out of which I passed some 
years since. Yes, as you grow older your taste changes .• 
it becomes more fastidious ; and especially you come ta* 
have always less toleration for sentimental feeling and for 
flights of fancy. And besides this gradual and constant 
progression, which holds on uniformly year after year, 
there are changes in mood and taste sometimes from day 



CONCERKING VEAL. 33 

to day and from hour to hour. The man who did a very 
silly thing thought it was a wise thing when he did it. 
He sees the matter differently in a little while. On the 
evening after the battle of Waterloo, the Duke of Wel- 
lington wrote a certain letter. History does not record 
its matter or style. But history does record that some 
years afterwards the Duke paid a hundred guineas to get 
it back again ; and that on getting it he instantly burnt it, 
exclaiming that when he wrote it he must have been the 
greatest idiot on the face of the earth. Doubtless, if we 
had seen that letter, we should have heartily coincided in 
the sentiment of the hero. He was an idiot when he 
wrote it, but he did not think that he was one. I think, 
however, that there is a standard of sense and folly ; and 
that there is a point at which Veal is Veal no more. But 
I do not believe that thought can justly be called mature 
only when it has become such as to suit the taste of some 
desperately dry old gentleman with as much feeling as a 
log of wood, and as much imagination as an oyster. I 
know how intolerant some dull old fogies are of youthful 
fire and fancy. I shall not be convinced that any dis- 
course is puerile because it is pronounced such by the 
venerable Dr. Dryasdust. I remember that the vener- 
able man has written many pages, possibly abundant in 
sound sense, but which no mortal could read, and to 
which no mortal could listen. I remember that though 
that not very amiable individual has outlived such wits 
as he once had, he has not outlived the unbecoming emo- 
tions of envy and jealousy ; and he retains a strong ten- 
dency to evil-speaking and slandering. You told me, 
unamiable individual, how disgusted you were at hear- 
ing a friend of mine who is one of the best preachers in 
Britain, preach one of his finest sermons. Perhaps you 
3 



84 CONCERNING VEAL. 

really were disgusted : there is such a thing as casting 
pearls before swine, who will not appreciate them highly. 
But you went on to give an account of ?vhat the great 
preacher said ; and though I know you are extremely 
stupid, you are not quite so stupid as to have actually 
fancied that the great preacher said what you reported 
that he said : you were well aware that you were grossly 
misrepresenting him. And when I find malice and in- 
sincerity in one respect I am ready to suspect them in 
another : and I venture to doubt whether you were dis- 
gusted. Possibly, you were only ferocious at finding 
yourself so unspeakably excelled. But even if you had 
been really disgusted; and even if you were a clever 
man ; and even if you were above the suspicion of jeal- 
ousy ; I should not think that my friend's noble discourse 
was puerile because you thought it so. It is not when 
the warm feelings of earlier days are dried up into a 
cold, time-worn cynicism, that I think a man has become 
the best judge of the products of the human brain and 
heart. It is a noble thing when a man grows old, retain- 
ing something of youthful freshness and fervor. It is a 
fine thing to ripen without shrivelling: to reach the calm- 
ness of age, yet keep the warm heart and ready sympa- 
thy of youth. Show me such a man as that, and I shall 
be content to bow to his decision whether a thing be Veal 
or not. But as such men are not found very frequently, I 
ehould suggest it as an approximation to a safe criterion, 
that a thing may be regarded as mature when it is de- 
liberately and dispassionately approved by an educated 
man of good ability, and above thirty years of age. No 
doubt a man of fifty may hold that fifty is the age of 
Bound taste and sense : and a youth of twenty-three may 
maintain that he is as good a judge of human doings now 



CONCERNING VEAL. 85 

as he will ever be. I do not claim to have proposed an 
infallible standard. I give you my present belief, being 
well aware that it is very likely to alter. 

It is not desirable that one's taste should become too 
fastidious, or that natural feeling should be refined away. 
And a cynical young man is bad, but a cynical old one is 
a great deal worse. The cynical young man is probably 
shamming ; he is a humbug, not a cynic. But the old 
man probably is a cynic, as heartless as he seems. And 
without thinking of cynicism, real or affected, let us 
remember that though the taste ought to be refined 
and daily refining, it ought not to be refined beyond 
being practically serviceable. Let things be good ; but 
not too good to be workable. It is expedient that a cart 
for conveying coals should be of neat and decent appear- 
ance. Let the shafts be symmetrical, the boards well- 
planed, the whole strong yet not clumsy ; and over the 
whole let the painter's skill induce a hue rosy as beauty's 
cheek, or dark-blue as her eye. All that is well ; and 
while the cart will carry its coals satisfactorily, it will 
stand a good deal of rough usage, and it will please the 
eye of the rustic who sits in it on an empty sack, and 
whistles as it moves along. But it would be highly inex- 
pedient to make that cart of walnut of the finest grain 
and marking, and to have it French-polished. It would 
be too fine to be of use ; and its possessor would fear to 
scratch it ; and would preserve it as a show, seeking some 
plainer vehicle to carry his coals. In like manner, do 
not refine too much either the products of the mind, or 
the sensibilities of the taste which is to appreciate them. 
I know an amiable professor very different from Dr. Dry- 
asdust. He was a country clergyman ; a very interest- 
ing plain preacher. But when he got his chair, he bad 



86 CONCERNING VEAL. 

to preach a good deal in the college chapel ; and by way 
of accommodating his discourses to an academic audience, 
he re-wrote them carefully ; rubbed off all the salient 
points ; cooled down whatever warmth was in them to 
frigid accuracy ; toned down everything striking. The 
result was that his sermons became eminently classical 
and elegant ; only they became impossible to attend to, 
and impossible to remember. And when you heard the 
good man preach, you sighed for the rough and striking 
heartiness of former days. And we have all heard of 
such a thing as taste refined to that painful sensitiveness, 
that it became a source of torment ; that is, unfitted for 
common enjoyments and even for common duties. There 
was once a great man, let us say at Melipotamus, who 
never went to church. A clergyman once in speaking to 
a friend of the great man, lamented that the great man 
set so bad an example before his humbler neighbors. 
" How can that man go to church," was the reply ; " his 
taste and his entire critical faculty, is sharpened to that 
degree, that in listening to any ordinary preacher, he feels 
outraged and shocked at every fourth sentence he hears, 
by its inelegance or its want of logic ; and the entire ser- 
mon torments him by its unsymmetrical structure, its 
w^ant of perspective in the presentment of details, and 
its general literary badness." I quite believe that there 
was a moderate proportion of truth in the excuse thus 
urged ; and you will probably judge that it would have 
been better had the great man's mind not been brought 
to so painful a polish. 

The mention of dried-up old gentlemen reminds one 
of a question which has sometimes perplexed me. Is it 
Vealy to feel or to show keen emotion ? Is it a precious 
result and indication of the maturity of the human mind, 



CONCERNING VEAL. * 37 

to look as if you felt nothing at all ? I have often looked 
with wonder, and with a moderate amount of veneration3 
at a few old gentlemen whom I know well, who are lead- 
ing members of a certain legislative and judicial council, 
held in great respect in a country of which no more need 
be said. I have beheld these old gentlemen sitting ap- 
parently quite unmoved when discussions were going on in 
which I knew they felt a very deep interest, and when 
the tide of debate was setting strongly against their pe- 
culiar views. There they sat, impassive as a Red Indian 
at the stake. I think of a certain man, who, while a 
smart speech on the other side is being made, retains a 
countenance expressing actually nothing ; he looks as if 
he heard nothing, felt nothing, cared for nothing. But 
when the other man sits down, he rises to reply. He 
speaks slowly at first, but every weighty word goes home 
and tells : he gathers warmth and rapidity as he goes on, 
and in a little you become aware that for a few hundred 
pounds a year, you may sometimes get a man who would 
have made an Attorney- General or a Lord Chancellor ; 
you discern that under the appearance of almost stolidity, 
there was the sharpest attention watching every word of 
the argument of the other speaker, and ready to ct)me 
down on every weak point in it; and the other speaker is 
(in a logical sense) pounded to jelly by a succession of 
straight-handed hits. Yes, it is a wonderful thing to find 
a combination of coolness and earnestness. But I am 
inclined to believe that the reason why some old gentle- 
men look as if they did not care, is that in fact they don't 
care. And there is no particular merit in looking cool 
while a question is being discussed, if you really do not 
mind a rush which way it may be decided. A keen, 
unvarying, engrossing regard for one's self, is a great 



38 CONCERNING VEAL. 

safeguard against over-excitement in regard to all 
the questions of the day, political, social, and relig- 
ious. 

It is a curious but certain fact, that clever young men, 
at that period of their life when their own likings tend 
towards Veal, know quite well the difference between 
veal and beef; and are quite able, when necessary, to 
produce the latter. The tendency to boyishness of 
thought and style may be repressed, when you know you 
are writing for the perusal of readers with whom that 
will not go down. A student of twenty, who has in him 
great talent, no matter how undue a supremacy his im- 
agination may meanwhile have, if he be set to producing 
an essay in Metaphysics to be read by professors of phi- 
losophy, will produce a composition singularly free from 
any trace of immaturity. For such a clever youth, 
though he may have a strong bent towards Veal, has in 
him an instinctive perception that it is Veal ; and a keen 
sense of what will and will not do for the particular read- 
ers he has to please. Go, you essayist who carried off a 
host of university honors ; and read over now the prize 
essays you wrote at twenty-one or twenty-two. I think 
the thing that will mainly strike you will be, how very 
mature these compositions are ; how ingenious, how ju- 
dicious, how free from extravagance, how quietly and 
accurately and even felicitously expressed. T/iey are not 
Veal. And yet you know, that several years after you 
wrote them you were still writing a great deal which was 
Veal beyond all question. But then a clever youth can 
produce material to any given standard ; and you wrote 
the essays not to suit your own taste, but to suit what 
you intuitively knew was the taste of the grave and even 



CONCERNING VEAL. 39 

iraoke-dried professors who were to read them and sit in 
judgment on them. 

And though it is verj fit and right that the academic 
standard should be an understood one, and quite different 
from the popular standard, still it is not enough that a 
young man should be able to write to a standard against 
which he in his heart rebels and protests. It is yet more 
important that you should get him to approve and adopt 
a standard which is accurate, if not severe. It is quite 
extraordinary what bombastic and immature sermons are 
preached in their first years in the Church by young 
clergymen who wrote many academic compositions in a 
style the most classical. It seems to be essential that a 
man of feeling and imagination should be allowed fairly to 
run himself out. The course apparently is, that the tree 
should send out its rank shoots, and then that you should 
prune them, rather than that by some repressive means 
you should prevent the rank shoots coming forth at all. 
The way to get a high-spirited horse to be content to 
fita} peaceably in its stall, is to allow it to have a tearing 
gallop, and thus get out its superfluous nervous excite- 
ment and vital spirit. Let the boiler blow off its steam. 
All repression is dangerous. And some injudicious folk, 
instead of encouraging the highly-charged mind and heart 
to relieve themselves by blowing off in excited verse and 
extravagant bombast, would (so to speak) sit on the 
safety valve. Let the bursting spring flow ! It will run 
turbid at first ; but it will clear itself day by day. Let a 
young man write a vast deal : the more he writes, the 
sooner will the Veal be done with. But if a man write 
very little the bombast is not blown off; and it may re- 
main till advanced years. It seems as if a certain quan- 
tity of fustian must be blown off before yo i reach the 



40 CONCERNING YEAL. 

good material. I have heard a mercantile man of fifty 
read a paper he had written on a social subject. He 
had written very little save business letters all his life. 
And I assure you that his paper was bombastic to a de- 
gree that you would have said was barely tolerable in a 
youth of twenty. I have seldom listened to Yeal so out- 
rageous. You see he had not worked through it in hi3 
youth ; and so here it was now. I have witnessed the 
like phenomenon in a man who went into the Church at 
five-and-forty. I heard him preach one of his earli- 
est sermons, and I have hardly ever heard such boyish 
rodomontade. The imaginations of some men last out 
in liveliness longer than those of others ; and the taste 
of some men never becomes perfect ; and it is no doubt 
owing to these things that you find some men producing 
Veal so much later in life than others. You will find 
men who are very turgid and magniloquent at five-and- 
thirty, at forty, at fifty. But I attribute the phenome- 
non in no small measure to the fact that such men had 
not the opportunity of blowing off their steam in youth. 
Give a man at four-and-twenty two sermons to write a 
week, and he wall very soon w^ork through his Yeal. 
It is probably because ladies write comparatively so little, 
that you find them writing at fifty poetry and prose of 
the most awfully romantic and sentimental strain. 

We have been thinking, my friend, as you have doubt 
less observed, almost exclusively of intellectual and 
aesthetical immaturity, and of its products in composition, 
spoken or written. But combining with that immaturity, 
and going very much to affect the character of that Yeal, 
there is moral immaturity, resulting in views, feehngs, 
and conduct, which may be described as Moral Yeal, 



CONCERNING VEAL, 41 

But indeed it is very difficult to distinguish between the 
different kinds of immaturity ; and to say exactly what 
in the moods and doings of youth proceeds from each. 
It is safest to rest in the general proposition that, even 
as the calf yields Veal, so does the immature human 
mind yield immature productions. It is a stage which 
you outgrow, and therefore a stage of comparative im- 
maturity, in which you read a vast deal of poetry, and 
repeat much poetry to yourself when alone, working 
yourself up thereby to an enthusiastic excitement. And 
very like a calf you look when some one suddenly enters 
the room in which you are wildly gesticulating or mood- 
ily laughing, and thinking yourself poetical and indeed 
sublime. The person probably takes you for a fool ; and 
the best you can say for yourself is that you are not so 
great a fool as you seem to be. Yealy is the period of 
life in which you filled a great volume with the verses 
you loved ; and in w^hich you stored your memory, by 
frequent reading, with many thousands of lines. All 
that you outgrow. Fancy a man of fifty having his 
commonplace book of poetry ! And it will be instruc- 
tive to turn over the ancient volume, and to see how year 
by year the verses copied grew fewer, and finally ceased 
entirely. I do not say that all growth is progress ; some- 
times it is like that of the muscle which once advanced 
into manly vigor and usefulness, but is now ossifying into 
rigidity. It is well to have fancy and feeling under com- 
mand : it is not well to have feeling and fancy dead. 
That season of life is vealy in which you are charmed 
by the melody of verse quite apart from its meaning. 
And there is a season in which that is so. And it is cu- 
rious to remark what verses they are that have charmed 
many men. For they are often verses in which no one 



42 CONCERNING VEAL. 

else could have discerned that singular fascination. You 
may remember how Robert Burns has recorded that in 
youth he was enchanted by the melody of two lines of 
Addison's : — 

For though in dreadful whirls we hung, 
High on the broken wave. «. 

Sir Walter Scott felt the like fascination in youth (and 
he tells us it was not entirely gone even in age), in 
Mickle's stanza : — 

The dews of summer night did fall ; 

The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, 

And many an oak that grew thereby. 

Not a remarkable verse, I think. However, it at least 
presents a pleasant picture. But I remember well the 
enchantment which, when twelve years old, I felt in a 
verse by Mrs. Hemans, which I can now see presents an 
excessively disagreeable picture. I saw it not then ; and 
when I used to repeat that verse, I know it was without 
the slightest perception of its meaning. You know the 
beautiful poem called the Battle of Morgarten. At least 
I remember it as beautiful ; and I am not going to spoil 
my recollection by reading it now. Here is the verse : — 

Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed, 

When the Austrian turned to fly : 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude, 

Had a fearful death to die ! 

As I write that verse (at which the critical reader wiH 
smile), I am aware that Veal has its hold of me yet. I 
see nothing of the miserable scene the poet describes ; 
but I hear the waves murmuring on a distant beach, 
and I see the hills across the sea, the first sea I ever 
beheld ; I see the school to which I went daily ; I see 



CONCERNING YEAL. 48 

the class-room and the place where I used to sit ; I see 
the faces and hear the voices of mj old companions, 
some dead, one sleeping in the middle of the great At- 
lantic, many scattered over distant parts of the world, 
almost all far awaj. Yes, I feel that I have not quite 
cast off the witchery of the Battle of Morgarten. Early 
associations can give to verse a charm and a hold upon 
one's heart which no literary excellence, however high, 
ever could. Look at the first hymns you learned to 
repeat, and which you used to say at your mother's 
knee ; look at the psalms and hymns you remember 
hearing sung at church when you were a child : you 
know how impossible it is for you to estimate these upon 
their literary merits. They may be almost doggrel ; but 
not Mr. Tennyson can touch you like them ! The most 
effective eloquence is that which is mainly done by the 
mind to which it is addressed : it is that which touches 
chords which of themselves yield matchless music ; it is 
that which wakens up trains of old remembrance, and 
which wafts around you the fragrance of the haw^thorn 
that blossomed and withered many long years since. An 
English stranger would not think much of the hymns we 
sing in our Scotch churches : he could not know what 
many of them are to us. There is a magic about the 
words. I can discern, indeed, that some of them are 
mawkish in sentiment, faulty in rhyme, and on the whole 
what you would call extremely unfitted to be sung in 
public worship, if you were judging of them as new 
things : but a crowd of associations which are beautiful 
and touching gathers round the lines which have no great 
beauty or pathos in themselves. 

You were in an extremely vealy condition when, having 
attained the age of fourteen, you sent some verses to the 



44 CONCERNING VEAL. 

county newspaper, and with simple-hearted elation read 
them in the corner devoted to what was termed " Original 
Poetry." It is a pity you did not preserve the newspapers 
in which you first saw yourself in print, and experienced 
the peculiar sensation which accompanies that sight. No 
doubt your verses expressed the gloomiest views of life, 
and told of the bitter disappointments you had met in 
your long intercourse with mankind, and especially with 
womankind. And though you were in a flutter of anx- 
iety and excitement to see whether or not your verses 
would be printed, your verses probably declared that you 
had used up life and seen through it ; that your heart was 
no longer to be stirred by aught on earth ; and that, in 
short, you cared nothing for anything. You could see 
nothing fine, then, in being good, cheerful, and happy ; 
but you thought it a grand thing to be a gloomy man, of 
a very dark complexion, with blood on your conscience, 
upwards of six feet high, and accustomed to wander 
from land to land, like Childe Harold. You were ex- 
tremely vealy when you used to fancy that you were 
sure to be a very great man ; and to think how proud 
your relations would some day be of you, and how you 
would come back and excite a great commotion at the 
place where you used to be a schoolboy. And it is be- 
cause the world has still left some impressionable spot in 
your hearts, my readers, that you still have so many fond 
associations with " the schoolboy spot, we ne'er forget, 
though we are there forgot." They were vealy days, 
though pleasant to remember, my old school companions, 
in which you used to go to the dancing-school (it was in 
a gloomy theatre, seldom entered by actors), in which 
you fell in love with several young ladies about eleven 
years old ; and (being permitted occasionally to select 



CONCERNING VEAL. 45 

your own partners) made frantic rushes to obtain the 
hand of one of the beauties of that small society. Those 
were the days in which you thought that when you grew 
up it would be a very fine thing to be a pirate, bandit, or 
corsair, rather than a clergyman, barrister, or the like ; 
even a cheerful outlaw like Robin Hood did not come up 
to your views ; you would rather have been a man like 
Captain Kyd, stained with various crimes of extreme 
atrocity, which would entirely preclude the possibility 
of returning to respectable society, and given to moody 
laughter in solitary moments. Oh, what truly asinine 
developments the human being must go through before 
arriving at the stage of common sense ! You were very 
vealy, too, when you used to think it a fine thing to as- 
tonish people by expressing awful sentiments, such as that 
you thought Mahommedans better than Christians, that 
you would hke to be dissected after death, that you did 
not care what you got for dinner, that you liked learning 
your lessons better than going out to play, that you would 
rather read Euclid than Ivanhoe, and the like. It may 
be remarked that this peculiar vealiness is not confined 
to youth ; I have seen it appearing very strongly in 
men with gray hair. Another manifestation of veali- 
ness, which appears both in age and youth, is the en- 
tertaining a strong belief that kings, noblemen, and 
baronets, are always in a condition of ecstatic happi- 
ness. I have known people pretty far advanced in life, 
who not only believed that monarchs must be perfectly 
happy, but that all who were permitted to continue in 
their presence would catch a considerable degree of 
the mysterious bliss which was their portion. I have 
heard a sane man, rather acute and clever in many 
things, seriously say, " If a man cannot be happy in 



46 CON"CERNTNG VEAL. 

the presence of his Sovereign, where can he be hap- 

py?" 

And yet, absurd and foolish as is moral vealiness, there 
is something fine about it. Many of the old and dear as- 
sociations most cherished in human hearts, are of the 
nature of Veal. It is sad to think that most of the 
romance of life is unquestionably so. All spooniness, all 
the preposterous idolization of some one who is just like 
anybody else, all love (in the narrow sense in which the 
word is understood by novel readers), you feel when you 
look back, are Veal. The young lad and the young girl, 
whom at a pic-nic party you have discerned stealing off 
under frivolous pretexts from the main body of guests, 
and sitting on the grass by the riverside, enraptured in 
the prosecution of a conversation which is intellectually 
of the emptiest, and fancying that they two make all the 
world, and investing that spot with remembrances which 
will continue till they are gray, are (it must in sober 
sadness be admitted) of the nature of calves. For it is 
beyond doubt that they are at a stage which they will 
outgrow, and on which they may possibly look back with 
something of shame. All these things, beautiful as they 
are, are no more than Veal. Yet they are fitting and ex- 
cellent in their time. No, let us not call them veal, they 
are rather like lamb, which is excellent though immature. 
No doubt, youth is immaturity ; and as you outgrow it 
you are growing better and wiser ; still youth is a fine 
thing, and most people would be young again if they 
could. How cheerful and light-hearted is immaturity! 
How cheerful and lively are the little children even of si- 
lent and gloomy men ! It is sad, and it is unnatural, when 
they are not so. I remember yet, when I was at school, 
with what interest and wonder I used to look at two or 



CONCERNING VEAL. 47 

three boys, about twelve or thirteen years old, who were 
always dull, sullen, and unhappy-looking. In those days, 
as a general rule, you are never sorrowful without know- 
ing the reason why. You are never conscious of the 
dull atmosphere, of the gloomy spirits, of after-time. The 
youthful machine, bodily and mental, plays smoothly ; the 
young being is cheery. Even a kitten is very different 
from a. grave old cat ; and a young colt, from a horse 
sobered by the cares and toils of years. And you pic- 
ture fine things to yourself in your youthful dreams. I 
remember a beautiful dwelling I used often to see, as if 
from the brow of a great hill. I see the rich valley be- 
low, with magnificent woods and glades, and a broad 
river reflecting the sunset ; and in the m\dst of the valley, 
the vast Saracenic pile, with gilded minarets blazing in 
the golden light. I have since then seen many splendid 
habitations, but none in the least equal to that. I can- 
not even yet discard the idea that somewhere in this 
world there stands that noble palace, and that some day 
I shall find it out. You remember also the intense de- 
light with which you read the books that charmed you 
then : how you carried off the poem or the tale to some 
solitary place, how you sat up far into the night to read 
it, how heartily you believed in all the story, and sympa- 
thized with the people it told of. I wish I could feel now 
the veneration for the man who has written a book which 
I used once to feel. Oh that one could read the old vol- 
umes with the old feeling ! Perhaps you have some of 
them yet, and you remember the peculiar expression of 
the type in which they were printed : the pages look at 
you with the face of an old friend. If you were then of 
an observant nature, you will understand how much of 
the effect of any composition upon the human mind de- 



48 CONCERNING VEAL. 

pends upon the printing, upon the placing of the points, 
even upon the position of the sentences on the page. A 
grand, high-flown, and sentimental climax ought always* 
to conclude at the bottom of a page. It will look ridicu- 
lous if it ends four or five lines down from the top of the 
next page. Somehow there is a feeling as of the differ- 
ence between the night before and the next morning. 
It is as though the crushed ball-dress and the dishisvelled 
locks of the close of the evening re-appeared, the same, 
before breakfast. Let us have homely sense at the top 
of the page, pathos at the foot of it. What a force in the 
bad type of the shabby little Childe Harold you used to 
read so often ! You turn it over in a grand illustrated 
edition, and it seems like another poem. Let it here be 
said, that occasionally you look with something like in- 
dignation on the volume which enchained you in your 
boyish days. For now you have burst the chain. And 
you have somewhat of the feeling of the prisoner towards 
the jailer ^vho held him in unjust bondage. What right 
had that bombastic rubbish to touch and thrill you as it 
used to do? Well, remember that it suits successive 
generations at their enthusiastic stage. There are poets 
whose great admirers are for the most part under tw^enty 
years old ; but probably almost every clever young per- 
son regards them at some period in his life as among the 
noblest of mortals. And it is no ignoble ambition to 
win the ardent appreciation of even immature tastes and 
hearts. Its brief endurance is compensated by its inten- 
sity. You sit by the fireside and read your leisurely 
Times^ and you feel a tranquil enjoyment. You like it 
better than the Sorrows of Werter, but you do not like it 
a twentieth part as much as you once liked the Sorrows 
of Werter. You w^ould be interested in meeting the man 



CONCERNING VEAL/ 49 

who ivrote that brilliant and slashing leader; but you 
would not regard him with speechless awe, as something 
more than human. Yet, remembering all the weaknesses 
out of which men grow, and on which they look back 
with a smile or sigh, who does not feel that there is a 
charm which will not depart about early youth ? Long- 
fellow knew that he would reach the hearts of most men 
when he wrote such a verse as this : — 

The green trees whispered low and mild; ^ 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me m their arms so wild; 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy ! 

Such readers as are young men, will understand what 
has already been said as to the bitter indignation with 
which the writer, some years ago, listened to self-con- 
ceited elderly persons who put aside the arguments and 
the doings of younger men with the remark that these 
younger men were hoys, Tiiere are few terms of re- 
proach which I have heard uttered with looks of such 
deadly ferocity. And there are not many which excite 
feelings of greater wrath in the souls of clever young 
men. I remember how in those days I determined to 
write an essay, which should scorch up and finally de- 
stroy all these carping and malicious critics. It was to 
be called A Chapter on Boys. After an introduction of 
a sarcastic and magnificent character, setting out views 
substantially the same as those contained in the speech of 
Lord Chatham in reply to Walpole, which boys are taught 
to recite at school, that essay was to go on to show that 
a great part of English literature was written by very 
young men. Unfortunately, on proceeding to investigate 
4 



60 CONCERNING VEAL. 

the matter carefully, it appeared that the best part of 
English literature, even in the range of poetry, was in 
fact written by men of even more than middle age. So 
the essay was never finished, though a good deal of it 
was sketched out. Yesterday I took out the old manu- 
script ; and after reading a bit of it, it appeared so re- 
markably vealy, that I put it with indignation into the 
fire. Still I observed various facts of interest as to great 
things done by young men, and some by young men 
who never lived to be old. Beaumont the dramatist died 
at twenty-nine. Christopher Marlowe wrote Faustus at 
twenty-five, and died at thirty. Sir Philip Sidney wrote 
his Arcadia at twenty-six. Otway wrote The Orphan 
at twenty-eight, and Venice Preserved at thirty. Thom- 
son wrote the Seasons at twenty-seven. Bishop Berke- 
ley had devised his Ideal System at twenty-nine ; and 
Clarke at the same age published his great work on the 
Being and Attributes of God. Then there is Pitt, of 
course. But these cases are exceptional ; and besides, 
men at twenty-eight and thirty are not in any way to be 
regarded as boys. What I wanted was proof of the 
great things that had been done by young fellows about 
two-and-twenty ; and such proof was not to be found. A 
man is simply a boy grown up to his best ; and of course 
what is done by men must be better than what is done 
by boys. Unless in very peculiar cases, a man at thirty 
will be every way superior to what he was at twenty; 
and at forty to what he was at thirty. Not indeed phys- 
ically ; let that be granted. Not always morally ; but 
surely intellectually and "eesthetically. 

Yes, my readers, we have all been Calves. A great 
part of all our doings has been what the writer, in figu- 



CONCERNING VEAL. 51 

rative language, has described as Veal. We have not 
said, written, or done very much on which we can now look 
back with entire approval. And we have said, written, 
and done a very great deal on which we cannot look 
back but with burning shame and confusion. Very many 
things which, when we did them, we thought remarkably 
good, and much better than the doings of ordinary men, 
we now discern, on calmly looking back, to have been 
extremely bad. That time, you know, my friend, when 
you talked in a very fluent and animated manner after 
dinner at a certain house, and thought you were making 
a great impression on the assembled guests, most of them 
entire strangers ; you are now fully aware that you were 
only making a fool of yourself. And let this hint of one 
public manifestation of vealiness, suffice to suggest to 
each of us scores of similar cases. But though we 
feel, in our secret souls, what calves we have been, 
and though it is well for us that we should feel it 
deeply, and thus learn humility and caution, we do not 
like to be reminded of it by anybody else. Some peo- 
ple have a wonderful memory for the vealy sayings and 
doings of their friends. They may be very bad hands 
at remembering anything else ; but they never forget the 
silly speeches and actions on which one would like to 
shut down the leaf. You may find people, a great part 
of whose conversation consists of repeating and exagger- 
ating their neighbor's Yeal ; and though that Veal may 
be immature enough and silly enough, it will go hard 
but your friend Mr. Snarling will represent it as a good 
deal worse than the fact. You will find men who while 
at college were students of large ambition but slender 
abilities, revenging themselves in this fashion upon the 
clever men who beat them. It is easy, very easy, to 



52 CONCERNING VEAL. 

remember foolish things that were said- and done even 
by the senior wrangler or the man Avho takes a double 
first-class ; and candid folk will think that such foolish 
things were not fair samples of the men ; and will remem- 
ber, too, that the men have grown out of these, have 
grown mature and wise, and for many a year past would 
not have said or done such things. But if you were to 
judge from the conversation of Mr. Limejuice (who 
wrote many prize essays, but through the malice and 
stupidity of the judges never got any prizes), you would 
conclude that every word uttered by his successful rivals 
was one that stamped them as essential fools, and calves 
wdiich would never grow into oxen. I do not think it is 
a pleasing or magnanimous feature in any man's charac- 
ter, that he is ever eager to rake up these early follies. 
I would not be ready to throw in the teeth of a pretty 
butterfly that it was an ugly caterpillar once, unless I 
understood that the butterfly liked to remember the fact. 
I would not suggest to this fair sheet of paper on which 
I am writing, that not long ago it w^as dusty rags and 
afterwards dirty pulp. You cannot be an ox without 
previously having been a calf; you acquire taste and 
sense gradually ; and in acquiring them you pass through 
stages in which you have very little of either. It is a 
poor burden for the memory, to collect and shovel into it 
the silly sayings and doings in youth of people who have 
become great and eminent. I read with much disgust a 
biography of Mr. Disraeli, which recorded, no doubt ac- 
curately, all the sore points in that statesman's history. 
I remember, with great approval, what Lord John Man- 
ners said in Parliament in reply to Mr. Bright, who had 
quoted a well-known and very silly passage from Lord 
John's early poetry. '' I would rather," said Lord John 



CONCERNING VEAL. 55 

**liave been the man who in his youth wrote those silly 
verses, than the man who in mature years would rake 
them up." And with even greater indignation I regard 
the individual who, when a man is doing creditably and 
Christianly the work of life, is ever ready to relate and 
aggravate the moral delinquencies of his schoolboy and 
student days, long since repented of and corrected. 
" Remember not," said a man who knew human na- 
ture Avell, " the sins of my youth." But there are men 
whose nature has a peculiar affinity for anything petty, 
mean, and bad. They fly upon it as a vulture on car- 
rion. Their memory is of that cast, that you have only 
to make inquiry of them concerning any of their friends, 
to hear of somethin cr not at all to the friends' advantage. 
There are individuals, after listening to whom you think 
it would be a refreshing novelty, almost startling from 
its strangeness, to hear them say a word in favor of any 
human being whatsoever. 

It is not a thing peculiar to immaturity ; yet it may 
be remarked, that though it is an unpleasant thing to 
look back and see that you have said or done something 
very foolish, it is a still more unpleasant thing to be well 
aware at the time that you are saying or doing something 
very foohsh. If a man be a fool at all, it is much to be 
desired that he should be a very great fool, for then he 
will not know when he is making a fool of himself But 
it Ts painful not to have sense enough to know what you 
should do in order to be right, but to have sense enough 
to know that you are doing wrong. To know that you 
are talking like an ass, yet to feel that you cannot help 
it ; that you must say something, and can think of noth- 
ing better to say ; this is a suffering that comes with ad- 
vanced civilization. This is a phenomenon frequently to 



54 CONCERNING VEAL, 

be seen at public dinners in country towns, also at tho 
entertainment which succeeds a wedding. Men at other 
times rational, seem to be stricken into idiocy when they 
rise to their feet on such occasions ; and th^ painful fact 
is, that it is conscious idiocy. The man's words are asi- 
nine, and he knows they are asinine. His wits have 
entirely abandoned him : he is an idiot for the time. 
Have you sat next a man unused to speaking at a pub- 
lic dinner ; have you seen him nervously rise and utter 
an incoherent, ungrammatical, and unintelligible sentence 
or two, and then sit down with a ghastly smile ? Have 
you heard him say to his friend on the other side, in bit- 
terness, "I have made a fool of myself!" And have 
you seen him sit moodily through the remainder of the 
feast, evidently ruminating on what he said, seeing now 
what he ought to have said, and trying to persuade him- 
self that what he said was not so bad after all ? Would 
you do a kindness to that miserable man ? You have 
just heard his friend on the other side cordially agreeing 
with what he had said as to the badness of the appear- 
ance made by him. Enter into conversation with him ; 
talk of his speech, congratulate him upon it ; tell him 
you were extremely struck by the freshness and natural- 
ness of what he said, that there is something delightful 
in hearing an unhackneyed speaker, that to speak with 
entire fluency looks professional — it is like a barrister or 
a clergyman. Thus you may lighten the mortification 
of a disappointed man ; and what you say will receive 
considerable credence. It is wonderful how readily peo- 
ple believe anything they would like to be true. 

I was walking this afternoon along a certain street, 
coming home from visiting certain sick persons, and won- 



CONCEKNING VEAL. 55 

dering how I should conclude this essay, when, standing 
on the pavement on one side of the street, I saw a little 
boy of four years old, crying in great distress. Various 
individuals, who appeared to be Priests and Levites, 
looked as they passed at the child's distress, and passed 
on without doing anything to relieve it. I spoke to the 
little man, who was in great fear at being spoken to, but 
told me he had come away from his home and lost him- 
self, and could not find his way back. I told him I would 
take him home if he could tell me where he lived : but 
he was frightened into utter helplessness, and could only 
tell that his name was Tom, and that he lived at the top 
of a stair. It was a poor neighborhood, in which many 
people live at the top of stairs, and the description was 
vague. I spoke to two humble, decent-looking women 
w^ho were passing, thinking they might gain the little 
thing's confidence better than me ; but the poor little 
man's great wish was just to get away from us, though 
when he got two yards off he could but stand and cry. 
You may be sure he was not left in his trouble, but that 
he was put safely in his father's hands. And as I was 
coming home, I thought that here was an illustration of 
something I have been thinking of all this afternoon. I 
thought I saw in the poor little child's desire to get away 
from those who wanted to help him, though not knowing 
where to go when left to himself, something analogous to 
what the immature human being is always disposed to. 
The whole teaching of our life is leading us away from 
our early delusions and follies, from all those things 
about us which have been spoken of under the similitude 
which need not be again repeated. Yet we push away 
the hand that would conduct us to soberer and better 
things, though when left alone we can but stand and 



56 CONCERNING YEAL. 

vaguely gaze about us ; and we speak hardly of the 
growing experience which makes us wiser, and which 
ought to make us happier too. Let us not forget that 
the teaching which takes something of the gloss from 
life is an instrument in the kindest Hand of all ; and let 
us be humbly content if that kindest Hand shall lead us, 
even by rough means, to calm and enduring wisdom — 
wisdom by no means inconsistent with youthful freshness 
f feeling, and not necessarily fatal even to youthful 
gaiety of mood ; — and at last to that Happy Place, 
where worn men regain the little child's heart, and old 
and young are blest together! 



CHAPTER III. 



CONCERNING THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 




OU will see in a little while what sort of 
thino^s they are which I understand by 
v^ Things Sloicly Learnt, Some are facts, 
^^^ some are moral truths, some are practical 
lessons ; but the great characteristic of all those which 
are to be thought of in this essay, is, that we have 
to learn them and act upon them in the face of a 
strong bias to think or act in an opposite way. It is 
not that they are so difficult in themselves ; not that they 
are hard to be understood, or that they are supported by 
arguments whose force is not apparent to every mind. 
On the contrary, the things which I have especially in 
view are very simple, and for the most part quite un- 
questionable. But the difficulty of learning them lies in 
this : that, as regards them, the head seems to say one 
thing and the heart another. We see plainly enough 
wdiat we ought to think or to do ; but we feel an irre- 
sistible inclination to think or to do something else. It 
is about three or four of these things that we are going, 
my friend, to have a little quiet talk. We are going to 
confine our view to a single class, though possibly the 
most important class, in the innumerable multitude of 
Things Slowly Learnt. 

The truth is, a great many things are slowly learjit 



58 CONCERNING 

I have lately had occasion to observe that the alphabet 
is one of these. 1 remember, too, in my own sorrowful 
experience, how the Multiplication Table was another. 
A good many years since, an eminent dancing-master 
undertook to teach a number of my schoolboy compan- 
ions a graceful and easy deportment ; but comparatively 
few of us can be said as yet to have thoroughly attained 
it. I know men who have been practising the art of ex- 
tempore speaking for many years, but who have reached 
no perfection in it, and who, if one may judge from their 
confusion and hesitation when they attempt to speak, are 
not likely ever to reach even decent mediocrity in that 
wonderful accomphshment. Analogous statements might 
be made with truth, with regard to my friend Mr. Snarl- 
ing's endeavors to produce magazine articles ; likewise 
concerning his attempts to skate, and his efforts to ride 
on horseback unlike a tailor. Some folk learn with re- 
markable slowness that nature never intended them for 
wits. There have been men who have punned, ever 
more and more wretchedly, to the end of a long and 
highly respectable life. People submitted in silence to 
the infliction ; no one liked to inform those reputable in- 
dividuals that they had better cease to make fools of 
themselves. This, however, is part of a larger subject, 
which shall be treated hereafter. On the other hand, 
there are things which are very quickly learnt ; which 
are learnt by a single lesson. One liberal tip, or even a 
few kind words heartily said, to a manly little schoolboy, 
will establish in his mind the rooted principle that tlie 
speaker of the words or the bestower of the tip is a jolly 
and noble specimen of humankind. Boys are great 
physiognomists : they read a man's nature at a glance. 
Well I remember how, when going to and from school, a 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 50 

long journey of four hundred miles, in days when such 
a journey implied travel by sea as well as by land, I 
used to know instantly the gentlemen or the railway 
officials to whom I might apply for advice or informa- 
tion. I think that this intuitive perception of character 
is blunted in after years. A man is often mistaken in 
his first impression of man or woman ; a boy hardly 
ever. And a boy not only knows at once whether a 
human being is amiable or the reverse ; he knows also 
whether the human being is wise or foolish. In particu- 
lar, he knows at once whether the human being always 
means what he says, or says a great deal more than he 
means. Inferior animals learn some lessons quickly. A 
dog once thrashed for some oiFence, knows quite well not 
to repeat it. A horse turns for the first time down the 
avenue to a house where he is well fed and cared for ; 
next week, or next month, you pass that gate, and though 
the horse has been lono- tauo;ht to submit his will to 
yours, you can easily see that he knows the place again, 
and that he would like to go back to the stable with 
which, in his poor, dull, narrow mind, there are pleasant 
associations. I would give a good deal to know what 
a horse is thinking about. There is something very 
curious and very touching about the limited intelligence 
and the imperfect knowledge of that immaterial prin- 
ciple, in which the immaterial does not imply the im- 
mortal. And yet, if we are to rest the doctrine of a 
future life in any degree upon the necessity of compen- 
sation of the sufferings and injustice of a present, I think 
the sight of the cab horses of any large town might plead 
for the admission of some quiet world of green grass and 
shady trees, where there should be no cold, starvation, 
over-work, or flogging. Some one has said that the most 



60 CONCERNING 

exquisite material scenery would look very cold and dead 
in the entire absence of irrational life. Trees suggest 
singing-birds ; flowers and sunshine make us think of 
the drowsy bees. And it is curious to think how the 
future worlds of various creeds are described as not with- 
out their lowly population of animals inferior to man. 
We know what the " poor Indian '* expects shall bear 
him company in his humble heaven ; and possibly various 
readers may know some dogs who in certain important 
respects are very superior to certain men. You remem- 
ber how, when a war-chief of the Western woods was 
laid by his tribe in his grave, his horse was led to the 
spot in the funeral procession, and at the instant when 
the earth was cast upon the dead warrior's dust, an ar- 
row reached the noble creature's heart, that in the land 
of souls the man should find his old friend again. And 
though it has something of the grotesque, I think it has 
more of the pathetic, the aged huntsman of Mr. Asshe- 
ton Smith desiring to be buried by his master, with two 
horses and a few couples of dogs, that they might all be 
ready to start together when they meet again far away. 

This is a deviation ; but that is of no consequence. It 
is of the essence of the present writer's essays to deviate 
from the track. Only we must not forget the thread of 
the discourse ; and after our deviation we must go back 
to it. All this came of our remarking that some things 
are very quickly learnt ; and that certain inferior classes 
of our fellow-creatures learn them quickly. But deeper 
and larger lessons are early learnt. Thoughtful children 
of a very few years old, have their own theory of human 
nature. Before studying the metaphysicians, and indeed 
while still imperfectly acquainted with their letters, young 
children have glimpses of the inherent selfishness of 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 61 

humanity. I was recently present when a small boy of 
three years old, together with his ^ister, aged five, was 
brought down to the dining-room at the period of dessert. 
The small boy climbed upon his mother's knee, and be- 
gan by various indications to display his affection for her. 
A stranger remarked what an affectionate child he was. 
"Oh," said the little girl, "he suspects (by which she 
meant expects) that he is going to get something to eat!" 
Not Hobbes himself had reached a clearer perception or 
a firmer belief of the selfish system in moral philosophy, 
" He is always very affectionate," the youthful philosopher 
proceeded, " when he suspects he is going to get something 
good to eat ! " 

By Things Slowly Learnt, I mean not merely things 
which are in their nature such that it takes a long time 
to learn them ; such as the Greek language, or the law 
of vendors and purchasers. These things indeed take 
long time and much trouble to learn ; but once you have 
learnt them, you know them. Once you have come to 
understand the force of the second aorist, you do not find 
your heart whispering to you as you are lying awake at 
night, that what the grammar says about the second aorist 
is all nonsense ; you do not feel an inveterate disposition, 
gaining force day by day, to think concerning the second 
aorist just the opposite of what the grammar says. By 
Things Slowly Learnt, I understand things which it is 
very hard to learn at the first, because strong as the rea- 
sons which support them are, you find it so hard to make 
up your mind to them. I understand things which you 
can quite easily (when it is fairly put to you) see to be 
true ; but which it seems as if it would change the very 
tioil^ you live in to accept. I understand things you 



62 CONCERNING 

discern to be true, but which you have all your life been 
accustomed to think false ; and which you are extremely 
anxious to think false. And by Things Slowly Learnt I 
understand things which are not merely very hard to 
learn at the first ; but which it is not enough to learn for 
once, ever so well. I understand things which, when 
you have made the bitter ejffbrt, and admitted them to be 
true and certain, you put into your mind to keep (so to 
speak) ; and hardly a day has passed wdien a soft- quiet 
hand seems to begin to crumble them dowai and to wear 
them away to nothing. You write the principle which 
was so hard to receive, upon the tablet of your memoiy; 
and day by day a gentle hand comes over it with a bit of 
india-rubber, till the inscription loses its clear sharpness, 
grows blurred and indistinct, and finally quite disappears. 
Nor is the gentle hand content even then; but it begins, 
very faintly at first, to trace letters which bear a very 
different meaning. Then it deepens and darkens them 
day by day, week by week, till at a month's or a year's 
end the tablet of memory bears in great, sharp, legible 
letters, just the opposite thing to that which you had 
originally written down there. These are my Things 
Slowly Learnt, Things you learn at first in the face of 
a strong bias against them ; things when once taught you 
gradually forget, till you come back again to your old 
w^ay of thinking. Such things, of course, lie within the 
realm to which extends the influence of feeling and pre- 
judice. They are things in the accepting of which both 
head and heart are concerned. Once convince a man 
that two and two make four, and he learns the truth with- 
out excitement, and he never doubts it again. But prove 
to a man that he is of much less importance than he has 
been accustomed to think ; or prove to a woman that her 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT 63 

children are very much like those of other folk ; or prove 
to the inhabitant of a country parish that Britain has 
hundreds of parishes which in soil, and climate, and pro- 
ductions, are just as good as his own; or prove to the 
great man of a little country town that there are scores 
of towns in this world where the walks are as pleasant, 
the streets as well paved, and the population as healthy 
and as well conducted ; and in each such case you will 
find it very hard to convince the individual at the 
time, and you wdll find that in a very short space 
the individual has succeeded in entirely escaping from 
the disagreeable conviction. You may possibly find, 
if you endeavor to instil such belief into minds of 
but moderate cultivation, that your arguments wnll be 
met less by force of reason than by roaring of voice 
and excitement of manner; you may find that the per- 
son you address will endeavor to change the issue you 
are arguing, to other issues, wholly irrelevant, touch- 
ing your own antecedents, character, or even personal 
appearance ; and you may afterwards be informed by 
good-natured friends, that the upshot of your discussion 
had been to leave on the mind of your acquaintance the 
firm conviction that you yourself are intellectually a 
blockhead, and morally a villain. And even w^hen deal- 
ing with human beings who have reached that crowning 
result of a fine training, that they shall have got beyond 
thinking a man their " enemy because he tells them the 
truth," you may find that you have rendered a service 
like that rendered by the surgeon's amputating knife — 
salutary, yet very painful — and leaving forever a sad 
association with your thought and your name. For 
among the things we slowly learn, are truths and lessons 
which it goes terribly against the grain to learn at first j 



64 CONCERNING 

which must be driven into us time after time ; and which 
perhaps are never learnt completely. 

One thing very slowly learnt by most human beings, is, 
that they are of no earthly consequence beyond a very 
small circle indeed ; and that really nobody is thinking 
or talking about them. Almost all commonplace men 
and women in this world have a vague but deeply-rooted 
belief that they are quite different from anybody else, 
and of course quite superior to everybody else. It may 
be in only one respect they fancy they are this, but tliat 
one respect is quite sufficient. I believe that if a grocer 
or silk-mercer in a little town has a hundred customers, 
each separate customer lives on under the impression 
that the grocer or the silk-mercer is prepared to give to 
him or her certain advantages in buying and selling which 
will not be accorded to the other ninety-nine customers. 
*' Say it is for Mrs. Brown," is Mrs. Brown's direction 
to her servant when sending for some sugar ; " say it is 
for Mrs. Brown, and he will give it a little better." The 
grocer, keenly alive to the weaknesses of his fellow-crea- 
tures, encourages this notion. " This tea," he says, " would 
be four-and-sixpence a pound to any one else, but to you 
it is only four-and-threepence." Judging from my own 
observation, I should say that retail dealers trade a good 
deal upon this singular fact in the constitution of the hu- 
man mind, that it is inexpressibly bitter to most people 
to believe that they stand on the ordinary level of hu- 
manity ; that, in the main, they are just like their neigh- 
bors. Mrs. Brown would be filled with unutterable wrath 
if it were represented to her that the grocer treats her 
precisely as he does Mrs. Smith, who lives on one side 
of her, and Mrs. Snooks, who lives on the other. She 



THINGS SLOWLY L^^RNT. 65 

would be still more angry if you asked her what earthly 
reason there is why she should in any way be distin* 
guished beyond Mrs. Snooks and Mrs. Smith. She 
takes for granted she is quite different from them : quite 
superior to them. Human beings do not like to be 
classed, at least with the class to which in fact they be- 
long. To be classed at all is painful to an average 
mortal, who firmly believes that there never was such 
a being in this world. I remember one of the cleverest 
friends I have — one who assuredly cannot be classed in- 
tellectually, except in a very small and elevated class — 
telling me how mortified he was, when a very clever boy 
of sixteen, at being classed at all. He had told a literary 
lady that he admired Tennyson. " Yes," said the lady, 
" I am not surprised at that : there is a class of young 
men who like Tennyson at your age." It went like a 
dart to my friend's heart. Class of young men^ indeed ! 
"Was it for this that I outstripped all competitors at school, 
that I have been fancying myself an unique phenomenon 
in nature, different at least from every other being that 
lives, that I should be spoken of as one of a class of 
young men! Now, in my friend's half-playful reminis- 
cence, I see the exemplification of a great fact in human 
nature. Most human beings fancy themselves, and all 
their belongings, to be quite different from all other be- 
ings, and the belongings of all other beings. I heard an 
old lady, whose son is a rifleman, and just like all the 
other volunteers of his corps, lately declare that on the 
occasion of a certain grand Review her Tom looked so 
entirely different from all the rest. No doubt he did to 
her, poor old lady, for he was her own. But the irri- 
tating thing was, that the old lady wished it to be ad- 
mitted that Tom's superiority was an actual fact, equally 

5 



6Q CONCERNING 

patent to the eyes of all mankind. Yes, my friend : it ig 
a thing very slowly learnt by most men, that they are 
very much like other people. You see the principle 
which underlies what you hear so often said by human 
beings, young and old, when urging you to do something 
which it is against your general rule to do. " Oh, but 
you might do it for me ! " Why for you more than for 
any one else, would be the answer of severe logic. Bu 
a kindly man would not take that ground : for doubtlesv 
the Me, however little to every one else, is to each unit 
in human-kind the centre of all the world. 

Arising out of this mistaken notion of their own dif- 
ference from all other men, is the fancy entertained by 
many, that they occupy a much greater space in the 
thoughts of others than they really do. Most folk think 
mainly about themselves and their own affairs. Even a 
matter which " everybody is talking about," is really 
talked about by each for a very small portion of the 
twenty-four hours. And a name which is " in every- 
body's mouth,'* is not in each separate mouth for more 
than a few minutes at a time. And during those few 
minutes, it is talked of with an interest very faint when 
compared with that you feel for yourself. You fancy it 
a terrible thing when you yourself have to do something 
which you would think nothing about if done by any- 
body else. A lady grows sick, and has to go out of 
church during the sermon. Well, you remark it ; pos- 
sibly indeed you don't ; and you say, Mrs. Thomson 
went out of church to-day ; she must be ill ; and there 
the matter ends. But a day or two later you see Mrs. 
Thomson, and find her quite in a fever at the awful fact. 
It was a dreadful trial, walking out, and facing all the 
congregation : they must have thought it so strange ; she 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 67 

would not run the risk of it again for any inducement. 
The fact is just this : Mrs. Thompson thinks a great deal 
of the thing, because it happened to herself. It did not 
happen to the other people, and so they hardly think of 
it at all. But nine in every ten of them, in Mrs. Thom- 
son's place, would have Mrs. Thomson's feeling ; for it is 
a thing which you, my reader, slowly learn, that people 
think very little about you. 

Yes, it is a thing slowly learnt : by many not learnt at 
all. How many persons you meet walking along the 
street who evidently think that everybody is looking at 
them ! How few persons can walk through an exhibi- 
tion of pictures at which are assembled the grand people 
of the town and all their own grand acquaintances, in a 
fashion thoroughly free from self-consciousness ! I mean 
without thinking of themselves at all, or of how they 
look ; but in an unaffected manner, observing the objects 
and beings around them. Men who have attained re- 
cently to a moderate eminence, are sometimes, if of small 
minds, much affected by this disagreeable frailty. Small 
literary men, and preachers with no great head or heart, 
have within my own observation suffered from it severely. 
I have witnessed a poet, whose writings I have never 
read, walking along a certain street. I call him a poet 
to avoid periphrasis. The whole get-up of the man, his 
dress, his hair, his hat, the style in which he walked, 
showed unmistakably that he fancied that everybody was 
looking at him, and that he was the admired of all ad- 
mirers. In fact, nobody was looking at him at all. Some 
time since I beheld a portrait of a very, very small liter- 
ary man. It was easy to discern from it that the small 
author lives in the belief that wherever he o^oes he is the 
jbject of universal observation. The intense self-con- 



68 CONCERNING 

Bciousness and self-conceit apparent in that portrait were, 
in the words of Mr. Squeers, '* more easier conceived 
than described." The face was a very commonplace and 
rather good-looking one : the author, notwithstanding his 
most strenuous exertions, evidently could make nothing 
of the features to distinguish him from other men. But 
the length of his hair w^as very great ; and oh, wdiat 
genius he plainly fancied glowed in those eyes ! I never 
in my life witnessed such an extraordinary glare. I do 
not believe that any human being ever lived whose eyes 
habitually wore that expression: only by a violent effort 
could the expression be produced ; and then for a very 
short time, without serious injury to the optic nerves. 
The eyes were made as large as possible ; and the thing 
after which the poor fellow had been struggling w^as that 
peculiar look which may be conceived to penetrate through 
the beholder, and pierce his inmost thoughts. I never 
beheld the living original, but if I saw him I should like 
in a kind w^ay to pat him on the head, and tell him that 
that sort of expression would produce a great effect on 
the gallery of a minor theatre. The other day I was at 
a public meeting. A great crowd of people was assem- 
bled in a large hall : the platform at one end of it re- 
mained unoccupied till the moment when the business of 
the meeting was to begin. It w^as an interesting sight 
for any philosophic observer seated in the body of the 
hall to look at the men who by and by walked in proces- 
sion on to the platform, and to observe the different ways 
in w^iich they walked in. There were several very great 
and distinguished men : every one of these w^alked on to 
the platform and took his seat in the most simple and 
unaffected way, as if quite unconscious of the many eyes 
that were looking at them with interest and curiosity. 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 69 

There were many highly respectable and sensible men, 
whom nobody cared particularly to see, and who took 
their places in a perfectly natural manner, as though well 
aware of the fact. But there were one or two small men, 
struggling for notoriety ; and I declare it was pitiful to 
behold their entrance. I vemarked one in particular, 
who evidently thought that the eyes of the whole meet- 
ing were fixed upon himself; and that as he walked in 
everybody was turning to his neighbor, and saying with 
agitation, "See, that's Snooks!" His whole gait and 
deportment testified that he felt that two or three* thou- 
sand eyes were burning him up : you saw it in the way 
he walked to his place, in the way he sat down, in the 
way he then looked about him. If any one had tried to 
get up three cheers for Snooks, Snooks would not have 
known that he was being made a fool of. He would 
have accepted the incense of fame as justly his due. 
There once was a man who entered the Edinburgh thea- 
tre at the same instant with Sir Walter Scott. The au- 
dience cheered lustily ; and while Sir Walter modestly 
took his seat, as though unaware that those cheers were 
to welcome the Great Magician, the other man advanced 
with dignity to the front of the box, and bowed in ac- 
knowledgment of the popular applause. This of course 
was but a little outburst of the great tide of vain self-esti- 
mation which the man had cherished within his breast 
for years. Let it be said here, that an affected uncon- 
sciousness of the presence of a multitude of people is as 
offensive an exhibition of self-consciousness as any that is 
possible. Entire naturalness, and a just sense of a man's 
personal insignificance, will produce the right deportment. 
It is very irritating to see some clergymen walk into 
church to begin the service. They come in, with eyes 



70 CONCERNING 

affectedly east down, and go to their place without ever 
looking up, and rise and begin without one glance at the 
congregation. To stare about them as some clergymen 
do, in a free and easy manner, befits not the solemnity of 
the place and the worship ; but the other is the worse 
thing. In a few cases it proceeds from modesty : in the 
majority from intolerable self-conceit. The man who 
keeps his eyes downcast in that affected manner fancies 
that everybody is looking at him. There is an insuffer- 
able self-consciousness about him ; and he is much more 
keenly aware of the presence of other people than the 
man who does what is natural, and looks at the people 
to w^hom he is speaking. It is not natural nor rational 
to speak to one human being with your eyes fixed on the 
ground ; and neither is it natural or rational to speak to 
a thousand. And I think that the preacher who feels in 
his heart that he is neither wiser nor better than his 
fellow-sinners to whom he is to preach, and that the 
advices he addresses to them are addressed quite as 
solemnly to himself, will assume no conceited airs of ele- 
vation above them, but will unconsciously wear the de- 
meanor of any sincere worshipper, somewhat deepened 
in solemnity by the remembrance of his heavy personal 
responsibility in leading the congregation's worship ; but 
assuredly and entirely free from the vulgar conceit which 
may be fostered in a vulgar mind by the reflection, " Now 
everybody is looking at me!" I have seen, I regret 
to say, various distinguished preachers whose pulpit de- 
meanor was made to me inexpressibly offensive by this 
taint of self-consciousness. And I have seen some, with 
half the talent, who made upon me an impression a 
thousand-fold deeper than ever was made by the most 
brilliant eloquence ; because the simple earnestness of 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 71 

their manner said to every heart, " Now, I am not think- 
ing in the least about myself, or about what you may 
think of me : my sole desire is to impress on your hearts 
these truths I speak, which I believe will concern us all 
forever ! " I have heard great preachers, after hearing 
whom you could walk home quite at your ease, praising 
warmly the eloquence and the logic of the sermon. I 
have heard others (infinitely greater in my poor judg- 
ment), after hearing whom you would have felt it profan- 
ation to criticize the literary merits of their sermon, high 
as those were : but you walked home thinking of the les- 
son and not of the teacher ; solemnly revolving the truths 
you had heard ; and asking the best of all help to ena- 
ble you to remember them and act upon them. 

There are various ways in which self-consciousness 
disagreeably evinces its existence; and there is not one 
perhaps more disagreeable than the affected avoidance 
of what is generally regarded as egotism. Depend upon 
it, my reader, that the straightforward and natural writer 
who frankly uses the first person singular, and says, " I 
think thus and thus," " I have seen so and so," is thinking 
of himself and his own personality a mighty deal less 
than the man who is always employing awkward and 
roundabout forms of expression to avoid the use of the 
obnoxious /. Every such periphrasis testifies unmistak- 
ably that the man was thinking of himself; but the sim- 
ple, natural writer, warm with his subject, eager to press 
Jiis views upon his readers, uses the 1 without a thought 
of self, just because it is the shortest, most direct, and 
most natural way of expressing himself. The recollec- 
tion of his own personality probably never once crossed 
his mind during the composition of the paragraph from 
which an ill-set critic might pick out a score of Ts. To 



72 CONCERNING 

say "It is submitted*' instead of "I think," "It has been 
observed " instead of " I have seen," " the present writer" 
instead of " I," is much the more really egotistical. Try 
to write an essay without using that vow^el which some 
men think the very shibboleth of egotism, and the re- 
membrance of yourself will be in the background of your 
mind all the time you are writing. It will be always in- 
truding and pushing in its face, and you will be able to 
give only half your mind to your subject. But frankly and 
naturally use the " I," and the remembrance of yourself 
vanishes. You are grappling with the subject ; you are 
thinking of it and of nothing else. You use the readiest 
and most unaffected mode of speech to set out your 
thoughts of it. You have written 1 a dozen times, but 
you have not thought of yourself once. 

You may see the self-consciousness of some men 
strongly manifested in their handwriting. The hand- 
writing of some men is essentially affected ; more es- 
pecially their signature. It seems to be a very search- 
ing test whether a man is a conceited person or an un- 
affected person, to be required to furnish his autograph to 
be printed underneath his published portrait. I have 
fancied I could form a theory of a man's whole character 
from reading, in such a situation, merely the words 
" Very faithfully yours, Eusebius Snooks." You could 
see that Mr. Snooks w^as acting when he wrote that sig- 
nature. He was thinking of the impression it would 
produce on those who saw^ it. It was not the thing 
which a man would produce who simply wished to write 
his name legibly in as short a time and with as little 
needless trouble as possible. Let me say with sorrow 
that I have known even venerable bishops who were not 
Buperior to this irritating weakness. Some men aim at 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 73 

an aristocratic hand ; some deal in vulgar flourishes. 
These are the men who have reached no farther than 
that stage at which they are proud of the dexterity with 
which they handle their pen. Some strive after an af- 
fectedly simple and student-like hand ; some at a dashing 
and military style. But there may be as much self-con- 
sciousness evinced by handwriting as by anything else. 
Any clergyman who performs a good many marriages 
will be impressed by the fact that very few among the 
humbler classes can sign their name in an unaffected 
way. I am not thinking of the poor bride who shakily 
traces her name, or of the simple bumpkin who slowly 
writes his, making no secret of the difficulty with which 
he does it. These are natural and pleasing. You would 
like to help and encourage them. But it is irritating 
when some forward fellow, after evincing his marked 
contempt for the slow and cramped performances of his 
friends, jauntily takes up the pen and dashes off his sig- 
nature at a tremendous rate and with the air of an ex- 
ploit, evidently expecting the admiration of his rustic 
friends, and laying a foundation for remarking to them 
on his way home that the parson could not touch him 
at penmanship. I have observed with a little malicious 
satisfaction that such persons, arising in their pride from 
the place where they wrote, generally smear their signa- 
ture with their coat-sleeve, and reduce it to a state of 
comparative illegibility. I like to see the smirking, im- 
pudent creature a little taken down. 

But it is endless to try to reckon up the fashions in 
which people show that they have not learnt the lesson 
of their own unimportance. Did you ever stop in the 
street and talk for a few minutes to some old bachelor ? 
If so, I dare say you have remarked a curious phenome- 



74 CONCERNING 

non. You have found that all of a sudden the mind of 
the old gentleman, usually reasonable enough, appeared 
gtricken into a state approaching idiocy, and that the 
sentence which he had begun in a rational and intelli- 
gible way was ending in a maze of wandering words, 
signifying nothing in particular. You had been looking 
in another direction, but in sudden alarm you look 
straight at the old gentleman to see what on earth is 
the matter; and you discern that his eyes are fixed on 
some passer-by, possibly a young lady, perhaps no more 
than a magistrate or the like, who is by this time a good 
many yards off, with the eyes still following, and slowly 
revolving on their axis so as to follow without the head 
being turned round. It is this spectacle which has drawn 
off your friend's attention ; and you notice his whole 
figure twisted into an ungainly form, intended to be dig- 
nified or easy, and assumed because he fancied that the 
passer-by was looking at him. Oh the pettiness of hu- 
man nature ! Then you will find people afraid that they 
have given offence by saying or doing things which the 
party they suppose offended had really never observed 
that they had said or done. There are people who fancy 
that in church everybody is looking at them, when in 
truth no mortal is taking the trouble to do so. It is an 
amusing though irritating sight to behold a weak-minded 
lady walking into church and taking her seat under this 
delusion. You remember the affected air, the downcast 
eyes, the demeanor intended to imply a modest shrinking 
from notice, but through which there shines the real de- 
sire, " Oh, for any sake, look at me ! " There are people 
whose voice is utterly inaudible in church six feet off, 
who will tell you that a whole congregation of a thousand 
or fifteen hundred people was listening te their singing 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 75 

Sucli folk will tell you that they went to a church where 
the singing was left too much to the choir, and began to 
sing as usual, on which the entire congregation looked 
round to see who it was that was singing, and ultimately 
proceeded to sing lustily too. I do not remember a more 
disgusting exhibition of vulgar self-conceit than I saw a 
few months ago at Westminster Abbey. It was a week- 
day afternoon service, and the congregation was small. 
Immediately before me there sat an insolent boor, who 
evidently did not belong to the Church of England. He 
had walked in when the prayers were half over, having 
with difficulty been made to take off his hat, and his 
manifest wish was to testify his contempt for the whole 
place and service. Accordingly he persisted in sitting, 
in a lounging attitude, when the people stood, and in 
standing up and staring about with an air of curiosity 
while they knelt. He was very anxious to convey that 
he was not listening to the prayers ; but rather inconsist- 
ently he now and then uttered an audible grunt of disap- 
proval. No one can enjoy the choral service more than 
I do, and the music that afternoon was very fine ; but I 
could not enjoy it or join in it as I wished for the disgust 
I felt at the animal before me, and for my burning desire 
to see him turned out of the sacred place he was profan- 
ing. But the thing which chiefly struck me about the 
individual was not his vulgar and impudent profanity ; it 
was his intolerable self-conceit. He plainly thought that 
every eye under the noble old roof was watching all his 
movements. I could see that he would go home and 
boast of what he had done, and tell his friends that all 
the clergy, choristers, and congregation had been awe- 
stricken by him, and that possibly word had by this time 
been conveyed to Lambeth or Fulham of the weakened 



76 COXCERNING 

influence and approaching downfall of the Church of 
England. I knew that the very thing he wished waa 
that some one should rebuke his conduct, otherwise I 
should certainly have told him either to behave with 
decency or to be gone. 

I have sometimes witnessed a curious manifestation 
of this vain sense of self-importance. Did you ever, my 
reader, chance upon such a spectacle as this: a very com- 
monplace man, and even a very great blockhead, stand- 
ing in a drawing-room where a large party of people is 
assembled, with a grin of self-complacent superiority upon 
his unmeaning face ? I am sure you understand the 
thing I mean. I mean a look which conveyed that, in 
virtue of some hidden store of genius or power, he could 
survey with a calm, cynical loftiness the little conversa- 
tion and interests of ordinary mortals. You know the 
kind of interest with which a human being would survey 
the distant approaches to reason of an intelligent dog, or 
a colony of ants. I have seen this expression on the face 
of one or two of the greatest blockheads I ever knew. 
I have seen such a one wear it while clever men were 
carrying on a conversation in which he could not have 
joined to have saved his life. Yet you could see that 
(who can tell how ?) the poor creature had somehow per- 
suaded himself that he occupied a position from which 
he could look down upon his fellow-men in general. Or 
was it rather that the poor creature knew he was a fool, 
and fancied that thus he could disguise the fact ? I dare 
sav there w^as a mixture of both feelings. 

You may see many indications of vain self-importance 
in the fact that various persons, old ladies for the most 
part, are so ready to give opinions which are not wanted, 
on matters of which they are not competent to judge. 



1 KINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 77 

Clever young curates suffer much annoyance from these 
people : they are always anxious to instruct the young 
curates how to preach. I remember well, ten years ago, 
when I was a curate (which in Scotland we call an as- 
sistant) myself, what advices I used to receive (quite 
unsought by me) from well-meaning but densely stupid 
old ladies. I did not think the advices worth much, 
even then ; and now, by longer experience, I can discern 
that they were utterly idiotic. Yet they were given with 
entire confidence. No thought ever entered the head of 
these well-meaning but stupid individuals, that possibly 
they were not competent to give advice on such subjects. 
And it is vexatious to think that people so stupid may do 
serious harm to a young clergyman by head-shakings 
and sly innuendos as to his orthodoxy or his gravity of 
deportment. In the long run they will do no harm, but 
at the first start they may do a good deal of mischief. 
Not long since, such a person complained to me that a 
talented young preacher had taught unsound doctrine. 
She cited his words. I showed her that the words 
were taken verbatim from the Confession of Faith, which 
is our Scotch Thirty-nine Articles. I think it not un- 
likely that she would go on telling her tattling story just 
the same. I remember hearing a stupid old lady say, as 
though her opinion were quite decisive of the question, 
that no clergyman ought to have so much as a thousand 
a year ; for if he had, he would be sure to neglect his 
duty. You remember what Dr. Johnson said to a woman 
who expressed some opinion or other upon a matter she 
did not understand. " Madam," said the moralist, " be- 
fore expressing your opinion, you should consider what 
your opinion is worth." But this shaft would have 
glanced harmlessly from off the panoply of the stupid 



78 CONCERNING 

and self-complacent old ladj of whom I am thinking. 
It was a fundamental axiom with her that her opin- 
ion was entirely infallible. Some people would feel aa 
though the very world were crumbling away under their 
feet, if they realized the fact that they could go wrong. 

Let it here be said, that this vain belief of their own 
importance which most people cherish, is not at all ? 
source of unmixed happiness. It will work either way. 
When my friend, Mr. Snarling, got his beautiful poem 
printed in the county i?:e\*spaper, it no doubt pleased hira 
to think, as he walked along the street, that every one 
was pointing him out as the eminent literary man who 
was the pride of the district ; and that the whole town 
was ringing with that magnificent effusion. Mr. Ten- 
nyson, it is ccrt?jn, felt that his crown was being reft 
away. But on the other hand, there is no commoner 
form of morbid misery than that of the poor nervous 
man or woman who fancies that he or she is the sub- 
ject of universal unkindly remark. You will find peo- 
ple, still sane for practical purposes, who think that the 
whole neighborhood is conspiring against them, when in 
fact nobody is thinking nf them. 

All these pages bgve been spent in discussing a single 
thing slowly learnt : the remaining matters to be consid- 
ered in this essay must be treated briefly. 

Another thing slowly learnt is that we have no reason 
or right to be angry with people because they think poorly 
of us. This is a truth which most people find it very 
hard to accept, and at which, probably, very few arrive 
without pretty long thought and experience. Most peo- 
ple are angry when they are informed that some one hag 
said that their ability is small, or that their proficiency in 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 79 

any art is limited. Mrs. Malaprop was very indignant 
when she found that some of her friends had spoken 
liglitly of her parts of speech. Mr. Snarhng was wroth 
when he learned that Mr. Jollikin thought him no great 
preacher. Miss Brown was so on hearing that Mr. Smith 
did not admire her singing ; and Mr. Smith on learning 
that Miss Brown did not admire his horsemanship. Some 
authors feel angry on reading an unfavorable review of 
their book. The present writer has been treated very, 
very kindly by the critics ; far more so than he ever de- 
served ; yet he remembers showing a notice of him which 
was intended to extinguish him for all coming time, to a 
warm-hearted friend, who read it with gathering wrath, 
and vehemently starting up at its close, exclaimed (we 
knew who wrote the notice) " Now, I shall go straight 
and kick that fellow ! " Now all this is very natural; 
but assuredly it is quite wrong. You understand, of 
course, that I am thinking of unfavorable opinions of 
you, honestly held, and expressed without malice. I do 
not mean to say that you would choose for your special 
friend or companion one who thought meanly of your 
ability or your sense ; it would not be pleasant to have 
him always by you ; and the very fact of his presence 
•would tend to keep you from doing justice to yourself. 
For it is true, that when with people who think you 
very clever and wise, you really are a good deal cleverer 
and wiser than usual ; while with people who think you 
stupii and silly, you find yourself under a malign in- 
fluence which tends to make you actually so for the time. 
If you want a man to gain any good quality, the way is 
to give him credit for possessing it. If he has but little, 
^ive him credit for all he has, at least ; and yoi will find 
him daily get more. You know how Arnold made boys 



so CONCERNING 

truthful; it was by giving them credit for truth. Oh 
that we all fitly understood that the same grand prin- 
ciple should be extended to all good qualities, intel- 
lectual and moral ! Dihgently instil into a boy that 
he is a stupid, idle, bad-hearted blockhead, and you are 
very likely to make him all that. And so you can see 
hat it is not judicious to choose for a special friend and 
ssociate one who thinks poorly of one's sense or one's 
parts. Indeed, if such a one honestly thinks poorly of 
you, and has any moral earnestness, you could not get 
him for a special friend if you wished it. Let us choose 
for our companions (if such can be found) those who 
think well and kindly of us, even though we may know 
within ourselves that they think too kindly and too well. 
For that favorable estimation will bring out and foster 
all that is good in us. There is between this and the 
unfavorable judgment all the difference between the 
warm, genial sunshine, that draws forth the flowers and 
encourages them to open their leaves, and the nipping 
frost or the blighting east-wind that represses and dis- 
heartens all vegetable life. But though thus you would 
not choose for your special companion one w^ho thinks 
poorly of you, and though you might not even wish to 
see him very often, you have no reason to have any 
angry feeling towards him. He cannot help his opinion. 
His opinion is determined by his lights. His opinion, 
possibly, founds on those aesthetic considerations as to 
which people will never think alike, with which there ia 
no reasoning, and for which there is no accounting. God 
has made him so that he dislikes your book, or at least 
cannot heartily appreciate it ; and that is not his fault. 
And, holding his opinion, he is quite entitled to express 
it. It may not be polite to express it to yourself. By 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 81 

common consent it is understood that you are never, ex- 
cept in cases of absolute necessity, to say to any man 
that which is disagreeable to him. And if you go, and, 
without any call to do so, express to a man himself that 
you think poorly of him, he may justly complain, not of 
your unfavorable opinion of him, but of the malice which 
is implied in your needlessly informing him of it. But if 
any one expresses such an unfavorable opinion of you in 
your absence, and some one comes and repeats it to you, 
be angry with the person who repeats the opinion to you, 
not with the person who expressed it. For what you do 
not know will cause you no pain. And all sensible folk, 
aware how estimates of any mortal must differ, will, in 
the long run, attach nearly the just weight to any opinion, 
favorable or unfavorable. 

Yes, my friend, utterly put down the natural tendency 
in your heart to be angry with the man who thinks poorly 
of you. For you have, in sober reason, no right to be 
angry with him. It is more pleasant, and indeed more 
profitable, to live among those who think highly of you. 
It makes you better. You actually grow into what you 
get credit for. Oh how much better a clergyman preaches 
to his own congregation, who listen with kindly and sym- 
pathetic attention to all he says, andalways think too well 
of him, than to a set of critical strangers, eager to find 
faults and to pick holes ! And how heartily and pleas- 
antly the essayist covers his pages, which are to go into a 
magazine whose readers have come to know him well, and 
to bear with all his ways ! If every one thought him a 
dull and stupid person, he could not write at all. Indeed, 
he would bow to the general belief, and accept the truth 
that he is dull and stupid. But further, my reader, let 
us be reasonable when it is pleasant ; and let us sorae- 
6 



82 CONCERNING 

times be irrational when that is pleasant too. It la 
natural to have a very kindly feeling to those who think 
well of us. Now, though, in severe truth, we have no 
more reason for wishing to shake hands with the man 
who thinks well of us, than for w^ishing to shake the man 
who thinks ill of us ; yet let us yield heartily to the for- 
mer pleasant impulse. It is not reasonable, but it is all 
right. You cannot help liking people who estimate you 
favorably, and say a good w^ord of you. No doubt we 
might slowly learn not to like them more than anybody 
else ; but we need not take the trouble to learn that les- 
son. Let us all, my readers, be glad if we can reach that 
cheerful position of mind at which various authors have 
arrived, that we shall be extremely gratified when we 
find ourselves favorably reviewed, and not in the least 
angry when we find ourselves reviewed unfavorably ; 
that we sliall have a very kindly feeling towards such as 
think well of us, and no unkind feeling whatever to those 
who think ill of us. Thus, whenever we have written 
an article in a magazine, at the beginning of the month 
shall we look with equal minds at the newspaper notices 
of it ; we shall be soothed and exhilarated when we find 
ourselves described as sages, and we shall be amused and 
interested when we find ourselves shown up as little bet- 
ter than geese. 

Of course, it makes a difference in the feeling with 
which you ought to regard any unfavorable opinion of 
you, whether spoken or written, if the unfavorable opinion 
which is expressed be plainly not honestly held, and be 
maliciously expressed. You may occasionally hear a 
judgment expressed of a young girl's music or dancing, 
of a gentleman's horses, of a preacher's sermons, of an 
author's books, which is manifestly dictated by personal 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 83 

gpite and jealousy, and which is expressed with the in- 
tention of doing mischief and giving pain to the person 
of whom the judgment is expressed. You will occasion- 
ally find such judgments supported by wilful misrepresen- 
tation, and even by pure invention. In such a case as 
this, the essential thing is not the unfavorable opinion ; it 
is the malice which leads to its entertainment and expres- 
sion. And the conduct of the offending party should be 
regarded with that feeling which, on calm thought, you 
discern to be the right feeling with which to regard 
malice, accompanied by falsehood. Then is it well to be 
angry here ? I think not. You may see that it is not 
safe to have any communication with a person who wull 
abuse and misrepresent you ; it is not safe, and it is not 
pleasant. But don't be angry. It is not worth while. 
That old lady, indeed, told all her friends that you said, 
in your book, something she knew quite well you did not 
say. Mr. Snarling did the like. But the offences of 
such people are not worth powder and shot ; and besides 
this, my friend, if you saw the case from their point of 
view, you might see that they have something to say for 
themselves. You failed to call for the old lady so often 
as she wished you should. You did not ask Mr. Snarling 
to dinner. These are bad reasons for pitching into you ; 
but still they are reasons; and Mr. Snarling and the old 
lady, by long brooding over them, may have come to 
think that they are very just and weighty reasons. And 
did you never, my friend, speak rather unkindly of these 
two persons ? Did you never give a ludicrous account 
of their goings-on, or even an ill-set account, which some 
kind friend was sure to repeat to them ? Ah, my reader ; 
don't be too hard on Snarling ; possibly you have your- 
self done something very like what he is doing now. 



84 CONCERNING 

Forgive, a& you need to be forgiven ! And try to attain 
that quite attainable temper, in which you will read or 
listen to the most malignant attack upon you, with curios- 
ity and amusement, and with no angry feeling at all. I 
suppose great people attain to this. I mean cabinet 
ministers and the like, who are daily flayed in print 
somewhere or other. They come to take it all quite 
easily. And if they were pure angels, somebody would 
attack them. Most people, even those who differ from 
him, know that if this world has a humble, conscientious, 
pious man in it, that man is the present Archbishop of 
Canterbury. Yet last night I read in a certain powerful 
journal, that the great characteristics of that good man, 
are cowardice, trickery, and simple rascality ! Honest 
Mr. Bumpkin, kind-hearted Miss Goodbody, do you fancy 
that you can escape ? 

Then we ought to try to fix it in our mind, that in all 
matters into which taste enters at all, the most honest and 
the most able men may hopelessly, diametrically, differ. 
Original idiosyncrasy has so much to say here ; and train- 
ing has also so much. One cultivated and honest man 
has an enthusiastic and most real love and enjoyment of 
Gothic architecture, and an absolute hatred for that of 
the classic revival ; another man equally cultivated and 
honest, has tastes which are the logical contradictory of 
thes'3. No one can doubt the ability of Byron, or of 
Sheridan ; yet each of them thought very little of Shaks- 
peare. The question is, what suits you ? You may have 
the strongest conviction that you ought to like an author ; 
you may be ashamed to confess that you don't like him ; 
and yet you may feel that you detest him. For my 
self, I confess with shame, and I know the reason is in 
myself, I cannot for my life see anything to admire in tha 



THINGS SLOWLT LEARNT. 85 

writings of Mr. Carljle. His style, both of thought and 
language, is to me insufferably irritating. I tried to read 
the Sartor Resartus^ and could not do it. So if all peo- 
ple who have learned to read English were like me, Mr. 
Carlyle would have no readers. Happily the majority, in 
most cases, possesses the normal taste. At least there is 
no further appeal than to the deliberate judgment of the 
majority of educated men. I confess, further, that I 
would rather read Mr. Helps than Milton ; I do not say 
that I think Mr. Helps the greater man, but that I feel 
he suits me better. I value tte Autocrat of the Break- 
fast-tahle more highly than all the writings of Shelley put 
together. It is a curious thing to read various reviews 
of the same book ; particularly if it be one of those books 
which, if you like at all, you will like very much, and 
which if you don't like you will absolutely hate. It is 
curious to find opinions flatly contradictory of one another 
set forth in those reviews by very able, cultivated, and 
unprejudiced men. There is no newspaper published in 
Britain which contains abler writing than the Edinhurgk 
Scotsman, And of course no one need say anything as 
to the literary merits of the Times, Well, one day with- 
in the last few months, the Times and the Scotsman each 
published a somewhat elaborate review of a certain book. 
The reviews were flatly opposed to one another; they 
had no common ground at all ; one said the book was 
extremely good, and the other that it was extremely bad. 
You must just make up your mind that in matters of taste 
there can be no unvarying standard of truth. In aesthetio 
matters, truth is quite relative. What is bad to you, is 
good to me perhaps. 

If you, my reader, are a wise and kind-hearted person 
(as I have no doubt whatever but you are), I think you 



86 CONCERNING 

would like very much to meet and converse with any per* 
Kon who has formed a bad opinion of you. You would 
take great pleasure in overcoming such a one's prejudice 
against you ; and if the person were an honest and worthy 
person, you would be almost certain to do so. Very few 
folk are able to retain any bitter feeling towards a man 
they have actually talked with, unless the bitter feeling 
be one which is just. And a very great proportion of all 
the unfavorable opinions which men entertain of their 
fellow-men found on some misconception. You take up 
somehow an impression that such a one is a conceited, 
stuck-up person : you come to know him, and you find he 
is the frankest and most unaffected -of men. You had a 
belief that such another was a cynical, heartless being, 
till you met him one day coming down a long black stair 
in a poor part of the town from a bare chamber in which 
is a little sick child, with two large tears running down his 
face ; and when you enter the poor apartment you learn 
certain facts as to his quiet benevolence which compel you 
suddenly to construct a new theory of that man's charac- 
ter. It is only people who are radically and essentially 
bad whom you can really dislike after you come to know 
them. And the human beings who are thus essentially 
bad are very few. Something of the original Image hn- 
gers yet in almost every human soul. And in many a 
homely, commonplace person, what with vestiges of the 
old, and a blessed planting-in of something new, there is 
a vast deal of it. And every human being, conscious of 
honest intention and of a kind heart, may well wish that 
the man who dislikes and abuses him could just know him. 
But there are human beings whom, if you are wise, 
you would not wish to know you too well. I mean the 
human beings ( if such there should be ) who think very 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 87 

highly of you ; who imagine you very clever and very 
amiable. Keep out of the way of such ! Let them see 
as little of you as possible. For when they come to know 
you well, they are quite sure to be disenchanted. The 
enthusiastic ideal which young people^forra of any one 
they admire is smashed by the rude presence of facts. I 
have got somewhat beyond the stage of feeling enthusias- 
tic admiration, yet there are two or three living men 
whom I should be sorry to see. I know I should never 
admire them so much any more. I never saw Mr. 
Dickens : I don't want to see him. Let us leave Yarrow 
unvisited : our sweet ideal is fairer than the fairest fact. 
No hero is a hero to his valet : and it may be questioned 
whether any clergyman is a saint to his beadle. Yet the 
hero may be a true hero, and the clergyman a very ex- 
cellent man : but no human being can bear too close in- 
spection. I remember hearing a clever and enthusiastic 
young lady complain of what she had suffered on meeting 
a certain great bishop at dinner. No doubt he was digni- 
fied, pleasant, clever ; but the mysterious halo was no 
longer round his head. Here is a sad circumstance in 
the lot of a very eminent man : I mean such a man as 
Mr. Tennyson or Professor Longfellow. As an elephant 
walks through a field, crushing the crop at every step, so 
do these men advance through life, smashing, every time 
they dine out, the enthusiastic fancies of several romantic 
young people. 

This was to have been a short essay. But you see it 
is already long ; and I have treated only two of the four 
Things Slowly Learnt which I had noted down. The 
other two must be very briefly stated. 

The first of the two things is a practical lesson. It i^ 



88 CONCERNING 

this : to allow for human follj, laziness, carelessness, and 
the like, just as you allow for the properties of matter, 
such as weight, friction, and the like, without being sur- 
prised or angry at them. You know that if a man is 
lifting a piece of lead he does not think of getting into a 
rage because it is heavy ; or if a man is dragging a tree 
along the ground he does not get into a rage because it 
plow^s deeply into the earth as it comes. He is not sur- 
prised at these things. They are nothing new. It is 
just what he counted on. But you will find that the 
same man, if his servants are lazy, careless, and forget- 
ful ; or if his friends are petted, wrong-headed, and im- 
practicable; will not only get quite angry, but will get 
freshly angry at each new action which proves that his 
friends or servants possess these characteristics. Would 
it not be better to make up your mind that such things 
are characteristic of humanity, and so that you must look 
for them in dealing with human beings? And would it 
not be better, too, to regard each new proof of laziness, 
not as a new thing to be angry with, but merely as a 
piece of the one great fact that your servant is lazy, with 
which you get angry once for all, and have done with it ? 
If your servant makes twenty blunders a day, do not re- 
gard them as twenty separate facts at which to get angry 
twenty several times. Kegard them just as twenty proofs 
of the one fact, that your servant is a blunderer ; and be 
angry just once, and no more. Or if some one you know 
gives twenty indications in a day that he or she (let us say 
slie) is of a petted temper, regard these merely as twenty 
proofs of one lamentable fact, and not as twenty differ- 
ent facts to be separately lamented. You accept the 
fact that the person is petted and ill-tempered : you re- 
gret it and blame it once for all. And after this once 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 89 

you take as of course all new manifestations of petted- 
ness and ill-temper. And you are no more surprised at 
them, or angry with them, than you are at lead for being 
heavy, or at down for being light. It is their nature, and 
you calculate on it, and allow for it. 

Then the second of the two remaininof thino^s is this — 
that you have no right to complain if you are postponed 
to greater people, or if you are treated with less consid- 
eration than you would be if you were a greater person. 
Uneducated people are very slow to learn this most ob- 
vious lesson. I remember hearing of a proud old lady, 
who was proprietor of a small landed estate in Scotland. 
She had many relations, some greater, some less. The 
greater she much affected, the less she wholly ignored. 
But they did not ignore her ; and one morning an indi- 
vidual arrived at her mansion-house, bearing a large box 
on his back. He was a4ravelling peddler ; and he sent 
up word to the old lady that he was her cousin, and 
hoped she would buy something from him. The old lady 
indignantly refused to see him, and sent orders that he 
should forthwith quit the house. The peddler went ; but 
on reaching the court-yard, he turned to the inhospitable 
dwelling, and in a loud voice exclaimed, in the ears of 
every mortal in the house, " Ay, if I had come in nTy 
carriage-and-four, ye wad have been proud to have ta'en 
me in ! " The peddler fancied that he was hurling at his 
relative a scathing sarcasm : he did not see that he was 
simply stating a perfectly unquestionable fact. No doubt 
earthly, if he had come in a carriage-and-four, he would 
have got a hearty welcome, and he would have found his 
claim of kindred eagerly allowed. But he thought he 
was saying a bitter and cutting thing, and (strange to 



90 CONCERNING 

say) the old lady fancied she was listening to a bitter and 
cutting thing. He was merely expressing a certain and 
innocuous truth. But though all mortals know that in 
this world big people meet greater respect than small 
(and quite right too), most mortals seem to find the prin- 
ciple a very unpleasant one when it comes home to them- 
selves. And we learn but slowly to acquiesce in seeing 
ourselves plainly subordinated to other people. Poor 
Oliver Goldsmith was very angry when at the club one 
night he was stopped in the middle of a story by a 
Dutchman, who had noticed that the Great Bear was 
rolling about in preparation for speaking, and who ex- 
claimed to Goldsmith, " Stop, stop ; Toctor Shonson is 
going to speak ! " Once I arrived at a certain railway 
station. Two old ladies were waiting to go by the same 
train. I knew them well, and they expressed their de- 
light that we were going the same way. " Let us go in 
the same carriage,*' said the younger, in earnest tones ; 
*' and will you be so very kind as to see about our lug- 
gage?" After a few minutes of the lively talk of the 
period and district, the train came up. I feel the tremor 
of the platform yet. I handed my friends into a car- 
riage, and then saw their baggage placed in the van. It 
was a station at which trains stop for a few minutes for 
r^ffreshments. So I went to the door of the carriage 
into which I had put them, and waited a little before tak- 
ing my seat. I expected that my friends would proceed 
with the conversation which had been interrupted ; but 
to my astonishment I found that I had become wholly 
invisible to them. They did not see me or speak to me 
at all. In the carriage with them was a living peer, of 
wide estates and great rank, whom they knew. And so 
thoroughly did he engross their eyes and thoughts and 



THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 91 

words, that they had become unaware of my presence^ 
or even my existence. The stronger sensation rendered 
them unconscious of the weaker. Do vou think I felt 
angry ? No, I did not. I felt very much amused. I 
recognized a slight manifestation of a grand principle. It 
"was a straw showing how a current sets, but for which 
Britain would not be the country it is. I took my seat 
in another carriage, and placidly read my Times. There 
was one lady in that carriage. I think she inferred, 
from the smiles which occasionally for the first few miles 
overspread my countenance without apparent cause, that 
my mind was slightly disordered. 

These are the two things already mentioned. But 
you cannot understand, friendly reader, what an eflTort 
it has cost me to treat them so briefly. The experienced 
critic will discern at a glance that the author could easily 
have made a great many pages out of the material you 
have here in very few. The author takes his stand upon 
this — that there are few people who can beat out thought 
so thin, or say so little in such a great number of words. 
1 remember how a dear friend, once the editor of a cer- 
tain well-known magazine (whom all who knew him well 
miss more and more as days and weeks go on, and never 
will cease to miss), used to remark this fact in various 
warm-hearted and playful letters, with w^onder not un- 
mixed with indignation. And I remember how a very 
great prelate (who could compress all I have said into 
a page and a half) once comforted me by telling me that 
for the consumption of many minds it was desirable that 
thought should be very greatly diluted ; that quantity as 
well as quality is needful in the dietetics both of the body 
and the mind. With this soothing reflection I close the 
present essay. 



92 CONCERNING THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. 

Annotations on the foregoing Chapter. 
By the Archbishop of Dublin. 

(1.) The Indian Brahmin who purchased, for a great 
price, an elaborate microscope which had shown him that 
he swallowed multitudes of minute animalculae in every 
draught of water, dashed it to pieces, saying it should 
never inflict that misery upon others it had upon him. 

(2.) E. S. (now Lord St. L.), is the son of a hairdresser, 
said to have been very eminent in his own way. A gen- 
tleman asked the man who was cutting his hair whether 
he remembered anything of him. " Oh, yes ; I remem- 
ber him very well when I was an apprentice. Wonderful 
man ! Had half-a-guinea for cutting hair ! Nobody like 
him since ! " " Well," said the other, " his son is a very 
eminent man too in his way." " Oh, is he, sir ? " " Yes ; 
the first lawyer in England." " Oh, is he, sir — 1 never 
heard of him'^ 

(3.) A gentleman who was fond of attending at the 
Lord Mayor of London's, to hear the trials and petitions 
and memorials that were going on, heard a memorial sent 
in by some Chimney-Sweepers, who complained of an 
interference which encroached on their annual May-Day 
festival, on which they dress themselves up and go round 
to receive contributions from their customers. They 
complained that their place had been usurped by certain 
Dustmen and other low fellows pretending to be Chimney* 
Sweepers I 




CHAPTER lY. 
GOXE. 

DGAR ALLAN POE thought the most 
touching of all words, Nevermore ; which, 
in American fashion, he made one word. 
American writers do the hke with Forever^ 
I think with bad effect. Ellesmere, in that most beauti- 
ful story of Gretchen, tells of a sermon he heard in Ger- 
many, in which " that pathetic word verloren (lost) oc- 
curred many times." Every one knows what Dr. Johnson 
wrote about The Last, It is, of course, a question of 
individual associations, and how it may strike different 
minds ; but I stand up for the unrivalled reach and pathos 
of the short word Gone. 

There is not very much difference, you see, between 
the three words. All are on the suburbs of the same 
idea. All convey the idea of a state of matters which 
existed for a time, and which is now over. All suggest 
that the inmost lonfrino^ of most human hearts is less for 
a future, untried happiness than for a return, a resurrec- 
tion, beautified and unalloyed with care, of what has 
already been. Somehow, we are ready to feel as if we 
were safest and surest with that 

It is curious, that the saddest and most touching of 
human thoughts, when we run it up to its sirapk-st form, 
is of so homely a thing as a material object existing in a 



94 GONE. 

certain space, and then removing from that space to 
another. That is the essential idea of Gone. 

Yet, in the commonest way, there is something touch- 
ing in that : something touching in the sight of vacant 
space, once filled by almost anything. You feel a blank- 
ness in the landscape when a tree is gone that you have 
known all your life. You are conscious of a vague sense 
of something lacking when even a post is pulled up that 
you remember always in the centre of a certain field. 
You feel this yet more when some familiar piece of fur- 
niture is taken away from a room which you know well. 
Here that clumsy easy-chair used to stand : and it is gone. 
You feel yourself an interloper, standing in the space 
where it stood so long. It touches you still more to look 
at the empty chair which you remember so often filled 
by one who will never fill it more. You stand in a large 
railway station : you have come to see a train depart. 
There is a great bustle on the platform, and there is a 
great quantity of human life, and of the interests and 
cares of human hfe, in those twelve or fourteen carriages, 
and filling that little space between the rails. You stand 
by and watch the warm interiors of the carriages, looking 
so large, and so full, and as if they had so much in them. 
There are people of every kind of aspect, children and 
old folk, multitudes of railway rugs, of carpet-bags, of 
portmanteaus, of parcels, of newspapers, of books, of 
magazines. At length you hear the last bell ; then comes 
that silent, steady pull, which is always striking, though 
seen ever so often. The train glides away : it is gone. 
You stand, and look vacantly at the place where it was. 
How little the space looks ; how blank the air ! There aro 
the two rails, just four feet eight and a half inches apart : 
how close together they look ! You can hardly think that 



GONE. 95 

there was so much of life, and of the interests of life, in 
BO little room. You feel the power upon the average 
human being of the simple, commonplace fact, that some- 
thing has been here, and is gone. 

Then I go away in thought, to a certain pier : a pair 
of wooden piles, running two hundred yards into the sea, 
at a quiet spot on a lovely coast, where various steam- 
vessels call on a summer day. You stand at the seaward 
end of the pier, where it broadens into a considerable 
platform : and you look down on the deck of a steamer 
lying alongside. What a bustle : what a hive of human 
beings, and their children, and their baggage, their hopes, 
fears, and schemes, fills that space upon the water of a 
hundred and fifty feet long and twenty-five wide ! And 
what a deafening noise, too, of escaping steam fills the 
air ! Men with baggage dash up against you ; women 
shrilly vociferate above the roar of the steam ; it is a 
fragment of the vitality and hurry of the great city car- 
ried for a little to the quiet country-place. But the last 
rope is thrown off; the paddles turn ; the steamer moves 
— it is gone. There is the blank water, churned now 
into foam, but in a few minutes transparent green, show- 
ing the wooden piles, encrusted with shells, and with 
weeds that wave about below the surface. There you 
stand, and look vaguely, and think vaguely. It is a 
curious feeling. It is a feeling you do not understancj 
except by experience. And to a thoughtful person a 
thing does not become commonplace because it is repeat- 
ed hundreds of thousands of times. There is something 
strange and something touching about even a steamboat 
going away from a pier at which a dozen call every 
day. 

But you sit upon the pier, you saunter upon the beach, 



96 GONE. 

you read the newspapers ; you enjoy the sense of rest. 
The day wears away, and in the evening the steamboat 
comes back again. It has travelled scores of miles, and 
carried many persons through many scenes, while you 
were resting and idling through these hours ; and the 
feeling you had when it was gone is effaced by its return. 
The going away is neutralized by the coming back. And 
to understand the full force of Gone in such a case, you 
must see a ship go, and see its vacant space when it is 
gone, when it goes away for a long time, and takes some 
with it who go forever. Perhaps you know by experi- 
ence what a choking sensation there is in looking at an 
emigrant vessel clearing out, even though you have no 
personal interest in any one on board. I have seen such 
a ship depart on her long voyage. I remember the 
confusion and hurry that attended her departure : the 
crowded deck, thronged with old and young ; gray-head- 
ed men bidding farewell to their native land ; and little 
children who would carry but dim remembrances of 
Britain to the distant Australian shore. And w^ho that 
has witnessed such a scene can forget how, when the 
canvas was spread at length, and the last rope cast off, 
the outburst of sobs and weeping arose as the great ship 
solemnly passed away ? You could see that many who 
parted there, had not understood w^hat parting means till 
they were in the act of going. You could see that the 
old parents who were willing, they thought, to part from 
their boy, because they thought his chances in life were 
60 much better in the new country, had not quite felt 
what parting from him was, till he was gone. 

Have you ever been one of a large gay party who 
have made an excursion to some beautiful scene, and 
had a picnic festival ? Not that such festivals are much 



GONE. 97 

to be approved ; at least to spots of very noble scenery. 
The noble scenery is vulgarized by them. There is an 
inconsistency in seeking out a spot which ought to awe- 
strike, merely to make it a theatre for eating and drink- 
ing, for stupid joking and laughter. No ; let small-talk 
be manufactured somewhere else. And the influence of 
tlie lonely place is lost, its spirit is unfelt, unless you go 
alone, or go with very few, and these not boisterously 
merry. But let us accept the picnic as a fact. It has 
been, and the party has been very large and very lively. 
But go back to the place after the party is gone ; go back 
a minute after for something forgotten ; go back a month 
or a year after. What a little spot it is that you occupied, 
and how blank it looks ! The place remains, but the 
people are gone ; and we so lean to our kind, that the 
place alone occupies but a very little part in our recol- 
lection of any passage in our history in which there were 
both scenery and human life. Or go back after several 
years to the house where you and your brothers and 
sisters were children together, and you will wonder to find 
how small and how blank it will look. It will touch you, 
and perhaps deeply ; but still you will discern that not 
places, but persons, are the true objects of human affec- 
tion ; and you will think what a small space of material 
ground may be the scene of w^hat are to you great human 
events and interests. It is so with matters on a grander 
scale. How little a space was ancient Greece — how 
little a space the Holy Land ! Strip these of their his- 
tory and their associations, and they are insignificant. 
And history and associations are invisible ; and at the 
first glimpse of the place without them the place looks 
poor. Let the little child die that was the light and hope 
of a great dwelling, and you will understand the truth of 
7 



98 GONE. 

the poet*s reflection on the loss of his : " 'T was strange 
that such a little thing, Should leave a blank so large ! '* 

There is no place perhaps where you have such a 
feeling of blankness when life has gone from it as in a 
church. It is less so, if the church be a very grand one, 
which compels you to attend to itself a good deal, even 
while the congregation is assembled. But if the church 
be a simple one, and the congregation a very large one, 
crowding the simple church, you hardly know it again 
when the congregation is gone. You could not believe 
that such a vast number of human beings could have 
been gathered in it. The place is unchanged, yet it is 
quite different. It is a curious feeling to look at the 
empty pulpit where a very great preacher once was ac- 
customed to preach. It is especially so if it be thirty 
years since he used to preach there ; more so, if it be 
many centuries. I have often looked at the pulpit 
whence Chalmers preached in the zenith of his fame ; 
you can no more bring up again the excited throng that 
surrounded it, and the rush of the great orator's elo- 
quence, than when standing under a great oak in De- 
cember you can call up plainly what it looked in June. 
And far less, standing under the dome of St. Sophia, 
could one recall as a present reality, or as anything but 
a dreamy fancy, the aspect and the eloquence of Chry- 
postom, ages since gone. 

The feeling of blankness, which is the essential thing 
contained in the idea suggested by the word Gone, is 
one that touches us very nearly. It seems to get closer 
to us than even positive evil or suffering present with 
us. That fixes our attention : it arouses us ; and unless 
we be very weak indeed, awakens something of resist- 
ance. But in the other case, the mind is not stimulated 



GONE. 99 

it is receptive, not active ; and we muse and feel, va- 
cantly, in the thought of something gone. You are, let 
us suppose, a country parson ; you take your wife and 
children over to your railway-station, and you see them 
away to the seaside, whither you are not to follow for a 
fortnight : then you come back from the railway-station, 
and you reach home. The house is quite changed. 
How startlingly quiet it is! You go to the nursery, 
usually a noisy place : you feel the silence. There are 
the pictures on the walls : there the little chairs : there 
some flowers, still quite fresh, lying upon a table, laid 
down by little hands. Gone ! There is something sad 
in it, even with the certainty of soon meeting again, — 
that is, so far as there is certainty in this world. You 
can imagine, distantly, what it would be if the little 
things were gone, not to return. That is the Gone con- 
summate. All who have heard it know the unuttera- 
ble sadness of the farewell of the Highland emigrant 
leaving his native hills. You would not laugh at the 
bagpipes, if you heard their wild wailing tones, blending 
with broken voices joining in that AlacrimmorCs Lament^ 
whose perpetual refrain is just the statement of that con- 
summate Gone. I shall not write the Gaelic words, be- 
cause you could not pronounce them ; but the refrain is 
this : We return, we return^ we return no more ! Yes ; 
Gone for ever ! And all to make room for deer ! There 
was a man whose little boy died. The father bore up 
wonderfully. But on the funeral day, after the little child 
was laid down to his long rest, the father went out to 
walk in the garden. There, in a corner, was the small 
wheelbarrow with its wooden spade ; and the foot-prints 
in the earth left by the little feet that were gone ! You 
do not think the less of the strong man that at the sight 



LOl 



100 GONE. 

he wept aloud : wept, as Some One Else had wept be- 
fore him. You may remember that little poem of Long- 
fellow's, in which he tells of a man, still young, who once 
had a wife and child : but wife and child were dead. 
There is no pathos like that of homely fact, which we 
may witness every day. They were gone ; and after 
those years in their company, he was left alone. He 
walked about the world, with no one to care for him 
now, as they had cared. The life with them would 
seem like a dream, even if it had lasted for years. And 
all the sadder that so much of life might yet have to 
come. I do not mind about an old bachelor, in his sol- 
itary room. I think of the kind-hearted man, sitting in 
the evening in his chair by the fireside : once, when he 
sat down there, little pattering feet were about him and 
their little owners climbed upon his knee. Now, he 
may sit long enough, and no one will interrupt him. 
He may read his newspaper undisturbed. He may 
write his sermon, and no sly knock come to the door : 
no little dog walk in, with much barking quite unlike 
that of common dogs, and ask for a penny. Gone ! I 
remember, long ago, reading a poem called the Scot- 
tish Widow's Lament, written by some nameless poet 
The widow had a husband and two little children, but 
one bleak w^inter they all went together.: — 

I ettle whiles to spin, 

But wee, wee patterin' feet, 
Come runnin' out and in. 

And then I just maun greet; 
I ken it's fancy a' 

And faster flows the tear, 
That my a' dwined awa', 

Sin' the fa' o' the year. 

Tou have said good-bye to a dear friend who has 



GONE. 101 

stayed a few days with you, and whom you will not see 
again for long : and you have, for a while, felt the house 
very blank without him. Did you ever think how the 
house would seem, without yourself? Have you fancied 
yourself gone ; and the place, blank of that figure you 
know ? When I am gone ; let us not say these words 
unless seriously ; they express what is, to each of us 
the most serious of all facts. The May Queen has few 
lines which touch me more than these : — 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here. 

Lord Macaulay, a few years before he died, had some- 
thing presented to him at a great public meeting in Scot- 
land ; something which pleased him much. " I shall 
treasure it," he said, " as long as I live ; and after I 
am gone"* — There the great man's voice faltered, and 
the sentence remained unfinished. Yet the thought at 
which Macaulay broke down, may touch many a lesser 
man more. For when we are gone, my friends, we may 
leave behind us those who cannot well spare us. It is 
not for one's own sake, that the Gone, so linked with 
one's own name, touches so much. We have had enough 
of this world before very long ; and (as Uncle Tom ex- 
pressed it) " heaven is better than Kentuck." But we 
can think of some, for whose sake we may wish to put 
off our going as long as may be. " Our minister," said a 
Scotch rustic, " aye preaches aboot goin' to heaven ; but 
he'll never go to heaven as long as he can get stoppin' 
at Drumsleekie." 

No doubt, that fit of toothache may be gone ; or that 
unwelcome guest who stayed with you three weeks 



102 GONE. 

whether you would or not ; as well as the thing or the 
friend you most value. And there is the auctioneer's 
Going ^ going, as well as this July sun going down in 
glory. But I defy you to vulgarize the word. Tiie 
water which makes the Atlantic will always be a sub- 
lime sight, though you may have a little of it in a dirty 
puddle. And though the stupid bore who comes whei 
you are busy, and wastes your time, may tell you when 
you happily get rid of him, that he will often come back 
again to see you (ignorant that you instantly direct your 
servant never to admit him more), even that cannot de- 
tract from the beauty of Mr. Tennyson's lines, in which 
the dying girl, as she is going, tells her mother that 
after she is gone, she will (if it may be) often come 
back : — 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; 
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face: 
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, 
And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away. 



CHAPTER V. 

CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOlVt MORE MIGHT 
HAVE BEEN MADE. 




T is recorded in history that at a certain pub- 
lic dinner in Amenca a Methodist preacher 
was called on to give a toast. It may be 
supposed that the evening was so far ad- 
vanced, that every person present had been toasted 
already, and also all the friends of every one present. 
It thus happened that the Methodist preacher was in 
considerable perplexity as to the question, what being, 
or class of beings, should form the subject of his toast. 
But the good man was a person of large sympathies ; 
and some happy link of association recalled to his mind 
certain words with which he had a professional familiar- 
ity, and which set forth a subject of a most comprehen- 
sive character. Arising from his seat, the Methodist 
preacher said that, without troubling the assembled com- 
pany with any preliminary observations, he begged to 
propose the health of All people that on Earth 

DO DWELL. 

Not unnaturally, I have thought of that Methodist 
preacher and his toast as I begin to write this essay. 
For though its subject was suggested to me by various 
little things of very small concern to mankind in general, 
though of great interest to one or two individual beings^ 



104 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

I now discern that the subject of this essay is in truth aa 
comprehensive as the subject of that toast. I have some- 
thing to say Concerning People of whom More might havt 
been Made : I see now that the class which 1 have named 
includes every human being. More might have been 
made, in some respect, possibly in many respects, o^ All 
people that on earth do dwell. Physically, intellectually, 
morally, spiritually, more might have been made of all. 
Wise and diligent training on the part of others ; self- 
denial, industry, tact, decision, promptitude, on the part of 
the man himself; might have made something far better 
than he now is of every man that breathes. No one is 
made the most of. There have been human beings who 
have been made the most of as regards some one thing ; 
who have had some single power developed to the utmost; 
but no one is made the most of, all round ; no one is even 
made the most of as regards the two or three most impor- 
tant things of all. And indeed it is curious to observe 
that the things in which human beings seem to have at- 
tained to absolute perfection, have for the most part been 
things comparatively frivolous ; accomplishments w^hich 
certainly were not worth the labor and the time which it 
must have cost to master them. Thus, M. Blondin has 
probably made as much of himself as can be made of 
mortal, in the respect of walking on a rope stretched at a 
great height from the ground. Hazlitt makes mention of 
a man who had cultivated to the very highest degree the 
art of playing at rackets ; and who accordingly played 
at rackets incomparably better than any one else ever 
did. A wealthy gentleman, lately deceased, by putting 
his whole mind to the pursuit, esteemed himself to have 
reached entire perfection in the matter of killing otters, 
Vanous individuals have probably developed the power 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEiQ MADE. 105 

of turning somersets, of picking pockets, of playing on 
the piano, jew's-harp, banjo, and penny trumpet, of men- 
tal calculation in arithmetic, of insinuating evil about 
their neighbors without directly asserting anything, — to 
a measure as great as is possible to man. Long practice 
and great concentration of mind upon these things, have 
sulTiced to produce what might seem to tremble on the 
verge of perfection : what unquestionably leaves the at- 
tainments of ordinary people at an inconceivable distance 
behind. But I do not call it making the most of a man, 
to develop, even to perfection, the power of turning som- 
ersets and playing at rackets. I call it making the most 
of a man, when you make the best of his best powers 
and qualities ; when you take those things about him 
which are the worthiest and most admirable, and culti- 
vate these up to their highest attainable degree. And it 
is in this sense that the statement is to be understood, 
that no one is made the most of. Even in the best, we 
see no more than the rudiments of good qualities which 
might have been developed into a great deal more ; and 
in very many human beings, proper management might 
have brought out qualities essentially different from those 
which these beings now possess. It is not merely that 
they are rough diamonds, which might have been pol- 
ished into blazing ones ; not merely that they are thor- 
oughbred colts drawing coal-carts, which with fair train- 
ing would have been new Eclipses : it is that they are 
vinegar which might have been wine, poison which might 
have been food, wild-cats which might have been harmless 
lambs, soured miserable wretches who might have been 
happy and useful, almost devils who might have been but 
a little lower than the angels. Oh the unutterable sad- 
ness that is in the thought of what might have been ! 



106 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

Not always, indeed. Sometimes, as we look back, il 
is with deep thankfulness that we see the point at which 
we were (we cannot say how) inclined to take the right 
turning, when we were all but resolved to take that which 
we can now see would have landed us in wreck and ruin. 
And it is fit that we should correct any morbid tendency 
to brood upon the fancy of how much better we might 
have been, by remembering also how much worse we 
might have been. Sometimes the present state of mat- 
ters, good or bad, is the result of long training ; of influ- 
ences that were at work through many years ; and that 
produced their effect so gradually that we never remarked 
the steps of the process, till some day we waken up to a 
sense of the fact, and find ourselves perhaps a great deal 
better, probably a great deal worse, than we had been 
vaguely imagining. But the case is not unfrequently 
otherwise. Sometimes one testing time decided w^hether 
we should go to the left or to the right. There are in 
the moral world things analogous to the sudden acci- 
dent which makes a maii blind or lame for life : in an 
instant there is wrought a permanent deterioration. Per- 
haps a few minutes before man or woman took the step 
which can never be retraced, which must banish them 
forever from all they hold dear, and compel them to 
seek in some new country far away a place where to 
hide their shame and misery, they had just as little 
thought of taking that miserable step as you, my reader, 
have of taking one like it. And perhaps there are 
human beings in this world, held in the highest esteem, 
and with not a speck on their snow-white reputation, 
who know within themselves that they have barely es- 
caped the gulf; that the moment has been in which all 
their future lot was trembling in the balance ; and that 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 107 

a grain's weight more in the scale of evil, and bj this 
time they might have been reckoned among the most de- 
graded and abandoned of the race. But probably the 
first deviation, either to right or left, is in most cases a 
very small one. You know, my friend, what is meant 
by the points upon a railway. By moving a lever, the 
rails upon which the train is advancing are, at a certain 
place, broadened or narrowed by about the eighth of aa 
inch. That little movement decides whether the train 
shall go north or south. Twenty carriages have come so 
far together ; but here is a junction station, and the train 
is to be divided. The first ten carriages deviate from the 
main line by a fraction of an inch at first ; but in a few 
minutes the two portions of the train are flying on, miles 
apart. You cannot see the one from the other, save by 
distant puffs of white steam through the clumps of trees. 
Perhaps already a high hill has intervened, and each 
train is on its solitary way — one to end its course, after 
some hours, amid the roar and smoke and bare ugliness 
of some huge manufacturing town ; and the other to 
come through green fields to the quaint, quiet, dreamy- 
looking little city, whose place is marked, across the 
plain, by the noble spire of the gray cathedral rising into 
the summer blue. We come to such points in our jour- 
ney through life ; railway-points (as it were), which de- 
cide not merely our lot in life, but even what kind of 
folk we shall be, morally and intellectually. A hair's- 
breadth may make the deviation at first. Two situations 
are offered you at once : you think there is hardly any- 
thing to choose between them. It does not matter which 
you accept ; and perhaps some slight and fanciful con- 
sideration is allowed to turn the scale. But now you 
look back, and you can see that there was the turning* 



108 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

point in your life ; it was because you went there to the 
right, and not to the left, that you are now a great Eng- 
lish prelate and not a humble Scotch professor. Was there 
not a time in a certain great man's life, at which the lines 
of rail diverged, and at which the question was settled, 
should he be a minister of the Scotch Kirk, or should he 
be Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain ? I can im- 
agine a stage in the history of a lad in a counting-house, 
at which the little angle of rail may be pushed in or 
pushed back that shall send the train to one of two places 
five hundred miles asunder ; it may depend upon whether 
he shall take or not take that half-crown, whether, thirty 
years after, he shall be taking the chair, a rubicund bar- 
onet, at a missionary society meeting, and receive the 
commendations of philanthropic peers and earnest bish- 
ops ; or be laboring in chains at Norfolk Island, a bru- 
talized, cursing, hardened, scourge-scarred, despairing 
wretch, without a hope for this life or the other. Oh, 
how much may turn upon a little thing ! Because the 
railway train in which you were coming to a certain 
place was stopped by a snow-storm, the whole character 
of your life may have been changed. Because some 
one was in the drawing-room when you went to see Miss 
Smith on a certain day, resolved to put to her a certain 
question, you missed the tide, you lost your chance, you 
went away to Australia and never saw her more. It 
fell upon a day that a ship, coming from Melbourne, was 
weathering a rocky point on an iron-bound coast, and 
was driven close upon that perilous shore. They tried 
to put her about ; it was the last chance. It was a mo- 
ment of awful risk and decision. If the wind catches 
the sails, now shivering as the ship comes up, on the 
right side, then all on board are safe. If the wind 



MOKE MIGHT HAVE BEEK MADE. 109 

catches the sails on the other side, then all on board 
must perish. And so it all depends upon which sur- 
face of certain square yards of canvas the uncertain 
breeze shall strike, whether John Smith, who is coming 
home from the diggings with twenty thousand pounds, shall 
go down and never be heard of again by his poor mother 
and sisters away in Scotland ; or whether he shall get 
safely back, a rich man, to gladden their hearts, and buy 
a pretty little place, and improve the house on it into the 
pleasantest picture ; and purchase, and ride, and drive va- 
rious horses ; and be seen on market days sauntering in 
the High-street of the county town ; and get married, and 
run about the lawn before his door, chasing his little chil- 
dren; and become a decent elder of the Church; and live 
quietly and happily for many years. Yes : from what pre- 
cise point of the compass the next flaw of wind should come, 
would decide the question between the long homely life in 
Scotland, and a nameless burial deep in a foreign sea. 

It seems to me to be one of the main characteristics of 
human beings, not that they actually are much, but that 
they are something of which much may be made. There 
are untold potentialities in human nature. The tree cut 
down, concerning which its heathen owner debated wheth- 
er he should make it into a god or into a three-legged 
stool, was positively nothing in its capacity of coming to 
different ends and developments, when we compare it with 
each human being born into this world. Man is not ?o 
much a thing already, as he is the germ of something. He 
is (so to speak) material formed to the hand of circumstan- 
ces. He is essentially a germ, either of good or evil. 
And he is not like the seed of a plant, in whose develop- 
ment the tether allows no wider rano^e than that between 
the more or less successful manifestation of its inherent 



310 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

nature. Give a young tree fair play : good soil and 
abundant air ; tend it carefully, in short, and yop will 
have a noble tree. Treat the young tree unfairly : give 
it a bad soil, deprive it of needful air and light, and it 
will grow up a stunted and poor tree. But in the case 
of the human being, there is more than this difference in 
degree. There may be a difference in kind. The human 
being may grow up to be (as it were) a fair and healthful 
fruit tree, or to be a poisonous one. There is something 
positively awful about the potentialities that are in human 
nature. The Archbishop of Canterbury might have 
grown up under influences which would have made him a 
bloodthirsty pirate or a sneaking pickpocket. The pirate 
or the pickpocket, taken at the right time, and trained in 
the right way, might have been made a pious exemplary 
man. You remember that good divine, two hundred 
years since, who, standing in the market-place of a cer- 
tain town, and seeing a poor wretch led by him to the 
gallows, said, " There goes myself, but for the grace of 
God." Of course, it is needful that human laws should 
hold all men as equally responsible. The punishment of 
such an offence is such an infliction, no matter who com- 
mitted the offence. At least the mitigating circumstan- 
ces which human laws can take into account must be all 
of a very plain and intelligible character. It w^ould not 
do to recognize anything like a graduated scale of respon- 
sibility. A very bad training in youth would be in a 
certain limited sense regarded as lessening the guilt of 
any wrong thing done ; and you may remember accord- 
ingly how that magnanimous monarch, Charles II., urged 
to the Scotch lords, in extenuation of the wrong things 
he had done, that his father had given him a very bad 
education. But though human laws and judges may 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. Ill 

rainly and clumsily endeavor to fix each wrong-doer^a 
place in the scale of responsibility ; and though they must, 
in a rough way, do what is rough justice in five cases out of 
bIx ; still we may well believe that in the view of the Su- 
preme Judge the responsibilities of men are most delicately 
graduated to their opportunities. There is One who will 
appreciate with entire accuracy the amount of guilt that is 
in each wrong deed of each wrongdoer, and mercifully al- 
low for such as never had a chance of being anything but 
wrongdoers. And it will not matter whether it was from 
original constitution or from unhappy training that these 
poor creatures never had that chance. I was lately quite 
astonished to learn that some sincere but stupid American 
divines have fallen foul of the eloquent author of Elsie 
Venner, and accused him of fearful heresy, because he de- 
clared his confident belief that " God would never make 
a man with a crooked spine and then punish him for not 
standing upright." Why, that statement of the Autocrat 
appears to me at least as certain as that two and two 
make four. It may indeed contain some recondite and 
malignant reference which the stupid American divines 
know, and which I do not : it may be a mystic Shibboleth 
indicating far more than it asserts ; as at one time in 
Scotland it was esteemed as proof that a clergyman 
preached unsound doctrine if he made use of the Lord's 
Prayer. But, understanding it simply as meaning that 
the Judge of all the earth will do right, it appears to 
me an axiom beyond all question. And I take it as 
putting in a compact form the spirit of what I have been 
arguing for — to wit, that though human law must of 
necessity hold all rational beings as alike responsible, yet 
in the eye of God the difference may be immense. The 
graceful vase that stands in the drawing-room under a 



112 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

glass shade, and never goes to the well, has no great 
right to despise the rough pitcher that goes often and 
is broken at last. It is fearful to think what malleable 
material we are in the hands of circumstances. And a 
certain Authority, considerably wiser and incomparably 
more charitable than the American divines already men- 
tioned, has recognized the fact when He taught us to 
pray, " Lead us not into temptation ! " We shall think, 
in a little while, of certain influences which may make 
or mar the human being ; but it may be said here, that 
I firmly believe that happiness is one of the best of 
disciplines. As a general rule, if people were happier, 
they would be better. When you see a poor cabman 
on a winter day, soaked with rain, and fevered with 
gin, violently thrashing the wretched horse he is driving, 
and perhaps howling at it, you may be sure that it is 
just because the poor cabman is so miserable that he is 
doing all that. It is a sudden glimpse, perhaps, of his 
bare home and hungry children, and of the dreary fu- 
ture which lies before himself and them, that was the 
true cause of those two or three furious lashes you saw 
him deal upon the unhappy screw's ribs. Whenever I 
read any article in a review, which is manifestly ma- 
lignant, and intended not to improve an author but to 
give him pain, I cannot help immediately wondering 
what may have been the matter with the man who wrote 
the maliofnant article. Somethinoj must have been mak- 
ing him very unhappy, I think. I do not alhide to 
playful attacks upon a man, made in pure thoughtless- 
ness and buoyancy of spirit ; but to attacks which indi- 
cate a settled, deliberate, calculating rancor. Never be 
Rngry with the man who makes such an attack ; you 
ought to be sorrv for him. It is out of great misery 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 113 

ihat malignity for tlie most part proceeds. To give the 
ordinary mortal a fair chance, let him be reasonably 
successful and happy. Do not worry a man into nerv- 
ous irritability, and he will be amiable. Do not dip a 
man in water, and he will not be wet. 

Of course, my friend, I know who is to you the most 
interesting of all beings ; and whose history is the most 
interesting of all histories. You are to yourself the cen- 
tre of this world, and of all the interests of this world. 
And this is quite right. There is no selfishness about all 
this, except that selfishness which forms an essential ele- 
ment in personality ; that selfishness which must go with 
the fact of one's having a self. You cannot help looking 
at all things as they appear from your own point of view ; 
and things press themselves upon your attention and your 
feeling as they affect yourself. And apart from anything 
like egotism, or like vain self-conceit, it is probable that 
you may know that a great deal depends upon your exer- 
tion and your life. There are those at home who would 
fare but poorly if you w^ere just now to die. There are 
those who must rise with you if you rise, and sink with 
you if you sink. Does it sometimes suddenly strike you, 
what a little object you are, to have so much depending 
on you ? Vaguely, in your thinking and feeling, you add 
your circumstances and your lot to your personality ; and 
these make up an object of considerable extension. You 
do so w4th other people as well as with yourself. You 
have all their belongings as a background to the picture 
of them which you have in your mind ; and they look 
very little when you see them in fact, because you see 
them without these belongings. I remember when a 
boy, how disappointed I was at first seeing the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury. It was Archbishop Howley. 
s 



114 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

There he was, a slender pale old gentleman, sitting in 
an arm-chair at a public meeting. I was chiefly disap- 
pointed, because there was so little of him. There was 
just the human being. There was no background of 
grand accessories. The idea of the Primate of Eng- 
land which I had in some confused manner in my mind, 
included a vision of the venerable towers of Lambeth, — 
of a long array of solemn predecessors, from Thomas 
A'Becket downwards, — of great historical occasions on 
which the Archbishop of Canterbury had been a promi- 
nent figure ; and in some way I fancied, vaguely, that 
you would see the primate surrounded by all these 
things. You remember the highlander in Waverley who 
was much mortified when his chief came to meet an 
English guest, unattended by any retinue ; and who ex- 
claimed in consternation and sorrow, ^' He has come 
without his tail ! " Even such was my early feeling. 
You understand, later, that associations are not visible ; 
and that they do not add to a man's extension in space. 
But (to go back) you do, as regards yourself, what 
you do as regards greater men ; you add your lot to 
your personality, and thus you make up a bigger ob- 
ject. And when you see yourself in your tailor's shop, 
in a large mirror (one of a series) wherein you see your 
figure all round, reflected several times, your feeling will 
probably be, what a little thing you are ! If you are a 
wise man, you will go away somewhat humbled, and pos- 
sibly somewhat the better for the sight. You have, to a 
certain extent, done what Burns thought it would do all 
men much good to do ; you have " seen yourself as others 
see you." And even to do so physically, is a step towards 
a juster and humbler estimate of yourself in more impor- 
tant things. It may here be said as a further illustration 



MOEE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 115 

of the principle set forth, that people who stay very much 
at home, feel their stature, bodily and mental, much les- 
sened when they go far away from home, and spend a 
little time among strange scenes and 'people. For, going 
thus away from home, you take only yourself. It is but 
a small part of your extension that goes. You go ; but 
you leave behind your house, your study, your children, 
your servants, your horses, your garden. And not only 
do you leave them behind ; but they grow misty and un- 
substantial when you are far away from them. And 
somehow you feel that w^hen you make the acquaintance 
of a new friend some hundreds of miles off, who never 
saw your home and your family, you present yourself be- 
fore him, only a twentieth part or so of what you fetl 
yourself to be when you have all your belongings about 
you. Do you not feel all that ? And do you not feel, 
that if you were to go away to Australia for ever, almost 
as the English coast turned blue and then invisible on the 
horizon, your life in England w^ould first turn cloud-like, 
and then melt away ? 

But without further discussing the philosophy of how 
it comes to be, I return to the statement that you your- 
self, as you live in your home, are to yourself the centre 
of this world ; and that you feel the force of any great 
principle most deeply, ^vhen you feel it in your own case. 
And though every worthy mortal must be often taken out 
of himself, especially by seeing the deep sorrows and 
great failures of other men, still, in thinking of people 
of whom more might have been made, it touches you 
most to discern that you are one of these. It is a very 
sad thing to think of yourself, and to see how mucl* more 
might have been made of you. Sit down by the fire ia 
winter ; or go out now in summer and sit down under a 



116 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

tree ; and look back on the moral discipline you have 
gone through ; look back on what you have done and 
suffered. Oh how much better and happier you might 
have been ! And how very near you have often been to 
what would have made you so much happier and better ! 
If you had taken the other turning when you took the 
wrong one, after much perplexity ; if you had refrained 
from saying such a hasty word ; if you had not thought- 
lessly made such a man your enemy ! Such a little thing 
may have changed the entire complexion of your life. 
Ah, it was because the points were turned the wa-ong 
way at that junction, that you are now running along a 
line of railway through wild moorlands, leaving the warm 
champaign below ever more hopelessly behind. Hastily, 
or pettedly, or despairingly, you took the wa-ong turning ; 
or you might have been dwelling now amid verdant fields 
and silver waters in the country of contentment and suc- 
cess. Many men and women, in the temporary bitterness 
of some disappointment, have hastily made marriages 
which will embitter all their future life ; or which at least 
make it certain that in this world they will never know 
a joyous heart any more. Men have died as almost 
briefless barristers, toiling into old age in heartless wran- 
gling, who had their chance of high places on the bench ; 
but ambitiously resolved to w^ait for something higher ; 
and so missed the tide. Men in the church have taken 
the wrong path at some critical time ; and doomed them- 
selves to all the pangs of disappointed ambition. But I 
think a sincere man in the church has a great advantage 
over almost all ordinary disappointed men. He has less 
temptation, reading affairs by the light of after-time, to 
look back wnth bitterness on any mistake he may have 
made. For if he be the man I mean, he took the deci- 



MORE MIGHT HA YE BEEN MADE. 117 

sive step not without seeking the best of guidance ; and 
the whole, traininoj of his mind has fitted him for seeinor a 
higher Hand in the allotment of human conditions. And 
if a man acted for the best, according to the light he had ; 
and if he truly believes that God puts all in their places 
in life : he may look back without bitterness upon w^hat 
may appear the most grievous mistakes. I must be suf- 
fered to add, that if he is able heartily to hold certain 
great truths, and to rest on certain sure promises, hardly 
any conceivable earthly lot should stamp him a soured 
or disappointed man. ff it be a sober truth, that ''all 
things shall work together for good " to a certain order 
of mankind ; and if the deepest sorrows in this w^orld 
may serve to prepare us for a better ; why, then, I think 
that one might hold by a certain ancient philosopher (and 
something more), who said " I have learned, in whatso- 
ever state I am, therew^ith to be content ! " 

You see, reader, that in thinking of People of whom 
more migJit have been made^ we are limiting the scope of 
the subject. I am not thinking how more might have 
been made of us originally. No doubt the potter had 
power over the clay. Give a larger brain, of finer qual- 
ity, and the commonplace man might have been a Milton. 
A little change in the chemical composition of the gray 
matter of that little organ w^hich is unquestionably con- 
nected with the mind's working as no other organ of the 
body is, and oh, what a different order of thought would 
have rolled off from your pen w^hen you sat down and 
tried to write your best ! If we are to believe Robert 
Burns, some people have been made more of than was 
originally intended. A certain poem records how that 
;vhich, in his homely phrase, he calls " stuff to mak' a 



118 COXCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

swine," was ultimately converted into a very poor speci- 
men of a human being. The poet had no irreverent 
intention, I dare say ; but 1 am not about to go into the 
field of speculation which is opened up by his words. I 
know indeed that in the hands of the Creator each of us 
might have been made a different man. The pounds of 
material which were fashioned into Shakespeare might 
have made a bumpkin with little thought beyond pigs 
and turnips ; or, by some slight difference beyond man's 
skill to trace, might have made an idiot. A little infu- 
sion of energy into the mental constitution might have 
made the mild, pensive day-dreamer who is wandering 
listlessly by the river-side, sometimes chancing upon 
noble thoughts, which he does not carry out into action, 
and does not even write down on paper, into an active 
worker, with Arnold's keen look, who would have carved 
out a great career for himself, and exercised a real influ- 
ence over the views and conduct of numbers of other 
men. A very little alteration in feature might have 
made a plain face into a beautiful one, and some slight 
change in the position or the contractibility of certain 
of the muscles might have made the most awkward of 
manners and gaits into the most dignified and graceful. 
All that we all understand. But my present subject is 
the making which is in circumstances after our natural 
disposition is fixed — the training, coming from a hun- 
dred quarters, which forms the material supplied by 
nature into the character which each of us actually 
bears. And setting apart the case of great genius, 
whose bent towards the thing in which it will excel is 
so strong that it will find its own field by inevitable se- 
lection, and whose strength is such that no unfavorable 
circumstances can hold it down, almost any ordinary hu- 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 119 

man being may be formed into almost any development; 
I know a huge massive beam of rough iron, which sup- 
ports a great weight. Whenever I pass it, I cannot help 
giving it a pat with my hand, and saying to it, "You 
might have been hair-springs for watches." I know an 
odd-looking little man attached to a certain railway-sta- 
tion, whose business it is when a train comes in to go 
round it with a large box of a yellow concoction, and 
supply grease to the wheels. I have often looked out 
of -the carriage- window at that odd little man, and thought 
to myself, '^ Now you might have been a chief justice." 
And indeed I can say from personal observation, that 
the stuff ultimately converted into cabinet ministers does 
not at an early stage at all appreciably differ from that 
which never becomes more than country parsons. There 
is a great gulf between the human being who gratefully 
receives a shilling, and touches his cap as he receives it, 
and the human being whose income is paid in yearly or 
half-yearly sums, and to whom a pecuniary tip would ap- 
pear as an insult ; yet of course that great gulf is the result 
of training alone. John Smith the laborer, with twelve 
shillings a week, and the bishop with eight thousand a year, 
had, by original constitution, precisely the same kind of 
feeling towards that much-sought yet much-abused reality 
which provides the means of life. Who shall reckon up 
by what millions of slight touches from the hand of cir- 
cumstance, extending over many years, the one man is 
gradually formed into the giving of the shilling, and the 
other man into the receiving of it with that touch of his 
hat? Who shall read back the forming influences at 
work since the days in the cradle, that gradually formed 
one man into sitting down to dinner, and another man 
into waitinpj behind his chair ? I think it would be occa 



120 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

sionally a comfort if one could believe, as American 
planters profess to believe about their slaves, that there 
is an original and essential difference between men ; for 
truly the difference in their positions is often so tremen- 
dous that it is painful to think that it is the selfsame clay 
and the selfsame common mind that are promoted to 
dignity and degraded to servitude. And if you some- 
times feel that, you in whose favor the arrangement tends, 
what do you suppose your servants sometimes think upon 
the subject ? It was no w^onder that the millions of Rus- 
sia were ready to grovel before their Czar, while they 
believed that he was "an emanation from the Deity." 
But in countries where it is quite understood that every 
man is just as much an emanation from the Deity as any 
other, you will not long have that sort of thing. You 
remember Goldsmith's noble lines, which Dr. Johnson 
never could read without tears, concerning the English 
character. It is not true that it is just because the hum- 
ble but intelligent Englishman understands distinctly that 
we are all of us people of whom more might have been 
made, that he has " learnt to venerate himself as man ! " 
And, thinking of influences which form the character, 
there is a sad reflection which has often occurred to me. 
It is, that circumstances often develop a character which 
it is hard to contemplate without anger and disgust. 
And yet in many such cases it is rather pity that is due. 
The more disgusting the character formed in some men, 
the more you should pity them. Yet it is hard to do 
that. You easily pity the man whom circumstances have 
made poor and miserable ; how much more you should 
pity the man whom circumstances have made bad. You 
pity the man from whom some terrible accident has taken 
a limb or a hand ; but how much more should you pity 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 121 

the man from whom the influences of years have taken 
a conscience and a heart ! And something is to be said 
for even the most unamiable and worst of the race. No 
doubt it is mainly their own fault that they are so bad; 
but still it is hard work to be always rowing against wind 
and tide, and some people could be good only by doing 
that ceaselessly. I am not thinking now of pirates and 
pickpockets. But take the case of a sour, backbiting, 
malicious, wrong-headed, lying old woman, who gives 
her life to saying disagreeable things and making mis- 
chief between friends. There are not many mortals 
with whom one is less disposed to have patience. But 
yet, if you knew all, you would not be so severe in what 
you think and say of her. You do not know the phy- 
sical irritability of nerve and weakness of constitution 
which that poor creature may have inherited ; you do 
not know the singular twist of mind which she may 
have got from nature and from bad and unkind treat- 
ment in youth; you do not know the bitterness of heart 
she has felt at the polite snubbings and ladylike tortures 
which in excellent society are often the share of the poor 
and the dependent. If you knew all these things, you 
would bear more patiently with my friend Miss Lime- 
juice ; though I confess that sometimes you would find 
it uncommonly hard to do so. 

As I wrote that last paragraph, I began dimly to fancy 
that somewhere I had seen the idea which is its subject 
treated by an abler hand by far than mine. The idea, 
you may be sure, was not suggested to me by books, but 
by what I have seen of men and women. But it is a 
pleasant thing to find that a thought which at the time is 
strongly impressing one's self, has impressed other men. 
And a modest person, who knows very nearly what his 



122 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

humble mark is, will be quite pleased to find that another 
man has not only anticipated his thoughts, but has ex- 
pressed them much better than he could have done. Yes, 
let me turn to that incomparable essay of John Foster, 
On a MarCs writing Memoirs of Himself, Here it is : — • 

Make the supposition that any given number of persons, a hundred, 
for instance, taken promiscuously, should be able to write memoirs of 
themselves so clear nnd perfect as to explain, to your discernment at 
least, the entire process by which their minds have attained their pres- 
ent state, recounting all the most impressive circumstances. If they 
Bhould read these memoirs to you in succession, while your benevo- 
lence and the moral principles according to which you felt and esti- 
mated, were kept at the highest pitch, you would often, during the 
disclosure, regret to observe how many things may be the causes of 
irretrievable mischief. Why is the path of life, you would say, so 
haunted as if with evil spirits of every diversity of noxious agency, 
some of which may patiently accompany, or others of which may sud- 
denly cross, the unfortunate wanderer? And you would regret to ob- 
serve into how many forms of intellectual and moral perversion the 
human mind readily yields itself to be modified. 

I compassionate you, would, in a very benevolent hour, be your 
language to the wealthy, unfeeling tyrant of a family and a neighbor- 
Jiood^ who seeks in the overawed timidity and unretaliated injuries of 
the unfortunate beings within his power, the gratification that should 
have been sought in their affections. Unless you had brought into 
the world some extraordinary refractoriness to the influence of evil, 
the process that you have undergone could not easily fail of being 
eflficacious. If your parents idolized their own importance in their son 
so much, that they never opposed your inclinations themselves, nor 
permitted it to be done by any subject to their authoritv; if the hum- 
ble companion, sometimes summoned to the honor of amusing you, 
bore your caprices and insolence with the meekness without which he 
had lost his enviable privilege; if you could despoil the garden of some 
nameless dependent neighbor of the carefully reared flowers, and tor- 
ment his little dog or cat, without his daring to punish you or to 
appeal to your infatuated parents; if aged men addressed you in a 
submissive tone, and with the appellation of " Sir," and their aged 
wives uttered their wonder at j^our condescension, and pushed their 
grandchildren awa}^ from around the fire for your sake, if you hap- 
Dened, though with the strut of pertness, and your hat on your head, 



MORE MIGHT HAYE BEEN MADE. 123 

ix) enter one of their cottages, perhaps to express your contempt of the 
homely dwelling, furniture, and fare; if, in maturer life, you associated 
with vile persons, who would forego the contest of equality to be yout 
allies in trampling on inferiors; and if, both then and since, 3^ou havo 
been suffered to deem your wealth the compendium or equivalent of 
every ability and every good quality — it would indeed be immensely 
strange if you had not become, in due time, the miscreant, w^ho may 
thank the power of the laws in civilized society that he is not assaulted 
with clubs and stones; to whom one could cordially wish the oppor- 
tunity and the consequences of attempting his tyranny among some 
such people as those submissive sons of nature in the forests of North 
America; and whose dependents and domestic relatives may be almost 
forgiven when they shall one day rejoice at his funeral. 

What do you think of that, my reader, as a specimen 
of embittered eloquence and nervous pith ? It is some- 
thing to read massive and energetic sense, in days wherein 
mystical twaddle, and subtlety which hopelessly defies all 
logic, are sometimes thought extremelj^ fine, if they are 
set out in a style which is refined into mere efifeminacy. 

1 cherish a very strong conviction (as has been said) 
that, at least in the case of educated people, happiness is 
a grand discipline for bringing out what is amiable and 
excellent. You understand, of course, what I mean by 
happiness. We all know, of course, that light hearted- 
ness is not very familiar to grown-up people, who are 
doing the work of life — who feel its many cares, and 
who do not forget the many risks which hang over it. I 
am not thinkinoj of the kind of thino^ which is suo^^^ested 
to the minds of children, when they read, at the end of a 
tale, concerning its heroine and hero, that " they lived 
happily ever after." No ; we don't look for that. By 
happiness, I mean freedom from terrible anxiety and 
from pervading depression of spirits : the consciousness 
that we are filling our place in life with decent success 



124 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

and approbation : religious principle and character : fair 
physical health throughout the family; and moderate 
good temper and good sense. And I hold, with Sydney 
Smith, and with that keen practical philosopher, Becky 
Sharpe, that happiness and success tend very greatly to 
make people passably good. Well, I see an answer to 
the statement, as I do to most statements ; but, at least, 
the beam is never subjected to the strain which w^ould 
break it. I have seen the gradual working of what I 
call happiness and success in ameliorating character. I 
have known a man who, by necessity, by the pressure of 
poverty, was driven to write for the magazines : a kind 
of work for which he had no special talent or liking, and 
which he had never intended to attempt. There was no 
more miserable, nervous, anxious, disappointed being on 
earth than he was when he began his waiting for the 
press. And sure enough his articles w^ere bitter and ill- 
set to a high degree. They were thoroughly ill-natured 
and bad. They were not devoid of a certain cleverness ; 
but they were the sour products of a soured nature. But 
that man gradually got into comfortable circumstances : 
and with equal step with his lot the tone of his w^ritings 
mended ; till as a writer he became conspicuous for the 
healthful, cheerful, and kindly nature of all he produced. 
I remember seeing a portrait of an eminent author, taken 
a good many years ago, at a time when he was strug- 
gling into notice, and when he was being very severely 
handled by the critics. That portrait was really trucu- 
lent of aspect. It was sour, and even ferocious-looking. 
Years afterwards I saw that author, at a time when he 
had attained vast success, and w^as universally recognized 
as a great man. How improved that face ! All the sav- 
age lines were o;one : the bitter look was crone : the sreat 



MORE MIGHT KAYE BEEN MADE. 125 

man looked quite genial and amiable. And I came to 
know that he reallj was all he looked. Bitter judgments 
of men, imputations of evil motives, disbelief in anything 
noble or generous, a disposition to repeat tales to the 
prejudice of others, envy, hatred, malice, and all unchari- 
tableness, — all these things may possibly come out of a 
bad heart ; but they certainly came out of a miserable 
one. The happier any human being is, the better and 
more kindly he thinks of all. It is the man who is al- 
ways worried, whose means are uncertain, whose home is 
uncomfortable, whose nerves are rasped by some kind 
friend who daily repeats and enlarges upon everything 
disagreeable for him to hear : it is he who thinks hardly 
of the character and prospects of humankind, and who 
believes in the essential and unimprovable badness of the 
race. 

This is not a treatise on the formation of character : it 
pretends to nothing like completeness. If this essay were 
to extend to a volume of about three hundred and eighty 
pages, I might be able to set out and discuss, in something 
like a full and orderly fashion, the influences under which 
human beings grow up, and the way in which to make 
the best of the best of these influences, and to evade or 
neutralize the worst. And if, after great thought and 
labor, I had produced such a volume, I am well aware 
that nobody would read it. So I prefer to briefly glance 
at a few aspects of a great subject just as they present 
themselves, leaving the complete discussion of it to solid 
individuals with more leisure at their command. 

Physically, no man is made the most of. Look at an 
acrobat or a boxer : there is what your limbs might have 



126 COXCERXING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

been made for strength and agility. That is the potential 
which is in human nature in these respects. I never 
witnessed a prize-fight, and assuredly I never will wit- 
ness one : but I am told that when the champions appear 
in the ring, stripped for the combat (however bestial and 
I lackguard-looking their countenances may be), the clear 
iiess and beauty of their skin testify that by skilful phy 
sical discipline a great deal more may be made of that 
human hide than is usually made of it. Then if you 
wish to see what may be made of the human muscles as 
regards rapid dexterity, look at the Wizard of the North 
or at an Indian juggler. I am very far indeed from say- 
ing or thinking that this peculiar pre-eminence is worth 
the pains it must cost to acquire it. Not that I have a 
word to say against the man who maintains his children 
by bringing some one faculty of the body to absolute per- 
fection : I am ready even to admit that it is a very right 
and fit thing that one man in five or six millions should 
devote his life to showing the very utmost that can be 
made of the human fingers, or the human muscular sys- 
tem as a whole : it is fit that a rare man here and there 
should cultivate some accomplishment to a perfection that 
looks magical, just as it is fit that a man here and there 
should live in a house that cost a million of pounds to 
build, and round which a wide tract of country shows 
what may be made of trees and fields where unlimited 
wealth and exquisite taste have done their best to im- 
prove nature to the fairest forms of which it is capable. 
But even if it were possible, it would not be desirable 
that all human beings should live in dwellings like Ham* 
ilton Palace or Arundel Castle ; and it would serve no 
good end at all, certainly no end worth the cost, to have 
all educated men muscular as Tom Sayers, or swift of 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 127 

hand as Robert Houdin. Practical efficiency is what is 
wanted for the business of this world, not absolute per- 
fection : life is too short to allow any but exceptional in 
dividuals, few and far between, to acquire the power of 
playing at rackets as well as rackets can possibly be 
played. We are obliged to have a great number of irons 
in the fire : it is needful that we should do decently well 
a great number of things; and w^e must not devote our- 
selves to one thing to the exclusion of all the rest. And 
accordingly, though we may desire to be reasonably mus- 
cular and reasonably active, it w^ill not disturb us to think 
that in both these respects we are people of whom more 
might have been made. It may here be said that proba- 
bly there is hardly an influence which tends so power- 
fully to produce extreme self-complacency as the convic- 
tion that as regards some one physical accomplishment, 
one is a person of whom more could not have been made. 
It is a proud thing to think that you stand decidedly 
ahead of all mankind : that Eclipse is first and the rest 
nowhere ; even in the matter of keeping up six balls 
at once, or of noting and remembering twenty different 
objects in a shop window as you walk past it at five miles 
an hour. I do not think I ever beheld a human being 
whose aspect was of such unutterable pride, as a man I 
lately saw playing the drum as one of a certain splendid 
military band. He was playing in a piece in which the 
drum music was very conspicuous ; and even an unskilled 
observer could remark that his playing was absolute per- 
fection. He had the thorough mastery of his instrument. 
He did the most difficult things not only with admirable 
precision, but without the least appearance of effort. He 
was a great tall fellow : and it was really a fine sight to 
Bee him standing very upright, and immovable save as 



128 CONCERNIXG PEOFLE OF WHOM 

to his arms, looking fixedly into distance, and his bosom 
swelling with the lofty belief that out of four or five 
thousand persons who were present, there was not one 
who, to save his life, could have done what he was doing 
so easily. 

)So much of physical dexterity. As for physical grace, 
t will be admitted that in that respect more might be 
made of most human beings. It is not merely that they 
are ugly and awkward naturally, but that they are ugly 
and awkward artificially. Sir Bulwer Lytton in his ear- 
lier writings was accustomed to maintain that just as it i'^ 
a man's duty to cultivate his mental powers, so is it his 
duty to cultivate his bodily appearance. And doubtless, 
all the gifts of nature are talents committed to us to be 
improved ; they are things intrusted to us to make the 
best of It may be difficult to fix the point at which the 
care of personal appearance in man or woman becomes 
excessive. It does so unquestionably when it engrosses 
the mind to the neglect of more important things. But 
I suppose that all reasonable people now believe that 
scrupulous attention to personal cleanliness, freshness, and 
neatness, is a Christian duty. The days are past almost 
everywhere in which piety was held as associated with 
dirt. Nobody would mention now as a proof how saintly 
a human being was, that (for the love of God) he had 
never washed his face or brushed his hair for thirty 
years. And even scrupulous neatness need bring with 
it no suspicion of puppyism. The most trim and tidy 
of old men was good John Wesley ; and he conveyed to 
the minds of all who saw him the notion of a man whose 
treasure was laid up beyond this world, quite as much as 
if he had dressed in such a fashion as to make himself an 
object of ridicule, or as if he had forsworn the use of soap. 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 121* 

Some people fancy that slovenliness of attire indicates 
a mind above petty details. I have seen an eminent 
preacher ascend the pulpit, with his bands hanging over 
his right shoulder, his gown apparently put on by being 
dropped upon him from the vestry ceiling, and his hair 
apparently unbrushed for several weeks. There was no 
suspicion of affectation about that good man ; yet I re- 
garded his untidiness as a defect and not as an excel- 
lence. He gave a most eloquent sermon ; yet I thought 
it would have been well had the lofty mind that treated 
so admirably some of the grandest realities of life and of 
immortality, been able to address itself a little to the care 
of lesser things. I confess that when I heard the Bishop 
of Oxford preach, I thought the effect of his sermon was 
increased by the decorous and careful fashion in which he 
was arrayed in his robes. And it is to be admitted that 
the grace of the human aspect may be in no small meas- 
ure enhanced by bestowing a little pains upon it. You, 
youthful matron, when you take your little children to have 
their photographs taken, and when their nurse in contem- 
plation of that event attired them in their most tasteful 
dresses, and arranged their hair in its prettiest curls, 
you know that the little things looked a great deal 
better than they do on common days. It is pure non- 
sense to say that beauty when unadorned is adorned the 
most. For that is as much as to say that a pretty young 
"woman, in the matter of physical appearance, is a person 
of whom no more can be made. Now taste and skill can 
make more of almost anything. And you will set down 
Thomson's lines as flatly opposed to fact, when your lively 
young cousin walks into your room to let you see her 
before she goes out to an evening party ; and when you 
compare that radiant vision, in her robes of misty texture, 

9 



130 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

and with hair arranged in folds the most complicated — • 
wreathed, and satin shoed — with the homely figure that 
took a walk with you that afternoon, russet-gowned, tar- 
tan-plaided, and shod with serviceable boots for tramping 
through country mud. One does not think of loveliness 
in the case of men, because they have not got any : but 
their aspect, such as it is, is mainly made by their tailors. 
And it is a lamentable thought, how very ill the clothes 
of most men are made. I think that the art of draping 
the male human body has been brought to much less ex- 
cellence by the mass of those who practise it, than any 
other of the useful and ornamental arts. Tailors, even in 
great cities, are generally extremely bad. Or it may be 
that the providing of the human frame with decent and 
well-fitting garments is so very difficult a thing, that (save 
by a great genius here and there) it can be no more than 
approximated io. As for tailors in little country villages, 
their power of distorting and disfiguring is wonderful. 
When I used to be a country clergyman, I remember 
how, when I went to the funeral of some simple rustic, I 
was filled with surprise to see the tall, strapping, fine 
young country lads, arrayed in their black suits. What 
awkward figures they looked in those unwonted gar- 
ments ! How different from their easy, natural appear- 
ance in their every-day fustian ! Here you would see a 
young fellow, with a coat whose huge collar covered half 
his head when you looked at him from behind ; a very 
common thing was to have sleeves which entirely con- 
cealed the hands ; and the wrinkled and baggy aspect of 
the whole suits could be imagined only by such as have 
seen them. It may be remarked here, that those strong 
country lads were in another respect people of whom 
more might have been physically made. Oh for a drill- 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 131 

sergeant to teach them to stand upright, and to turn out 
their toes ; and to get rid of that slouching, hulking gait 
which gives such a look of clumsiness and stupidity ! If 
you could but have the well-developed muscles and the 
fresh complexion of the country, with the smartness and 
alertness of the town ! You have there the rough material 
of which a vast deal may be made ; you have the water- 
worn pebble which will take on a beautiful polish. Take 
from the moorland cottage the shepherd-lad of sixteen ; 
send him to a Scotch college for four years ; let him be 
tutor in a good family for a year or two ; and (if he be an 
observant fellow) you will find in him the quiet, self-pos- 
sessed air and the easy address of the gentleman who has 
seen the world. And it is curious to see one brother of a 
family thus educated and polished into refinement, while 
the other three or four, remaining in their father's simple 
lot, retain its rough manners and its unsophisticated feel- 
ings. Well, look at the man who has been made a gen- 
tleman, probably by the hard labor and sore self-denial 
of the others ; and see in him what each of the others 
might have been ! Look with respect on the diamond 
which needed only to be polished. Reverence the unde- 
veloped potential which circumstances have held down. 
Look with interest on these people of whom more might 
have been made ! 

Such a sight as this sometimes sets us thinking how 
many germs of excellence are in this world turned to no 
account. You see the polished diamond and tlie rough 
one side by side. It is too late now ; but the dull color- 
less pebble might have been the bright glancing gem. 
And you may polish the material diamond at any time ; 
but if you miss your season in the case of the human one, 
the loss can never be repaired. The bumpkin who is a 



132 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

bumpkin at thirty, must remain a bumpkin to threescore 
and ten. But another thing that makes us think how 
many fair possibilities are lost, is to remark the fortuitous 
way in which great things have often been done ; and 
done by people who never dreamt that they had in them 
the power to do anything particular. These cases, one 
cannot but think, are samples of millions more. There 
have been very popular writers who were brought out by 
mere accident. They did not know what precious vein 
of thought they had at command, till they stumbled upon 
it as if by chance, like the Indian at the mines of Potosi, 
It is not much that we know of Shakespeare, but it seems 
certain that it was in patching up old plays for acting that 
he discovered within himself a capacity for producing that 
which men will not easily let die. When a young mili- 
tary man, disheartened with the service, sought for an 
appointment as an Irish Commissioner of Excise, and 
was sadly disappointed because he did not get it, it is 
probable that he had as little idea as any one else had 
that he possessed that aptitude for the conduct of war 
which was to make him the Duke of Wellington. And 
when a young mathematician, entirely devoid of ambition, 
desired to settle quietly down, and devote all his life to 
that unexciting study, he was not aware that he was a 
person of whom more was to be made ; — who was to 
grow into the great Emperor Napoleon. I had other 
instances in my mind, but after these last it is needless to 
mention them. But such cases suggest to us that there 
may have been many Folletts who never held a brief, 
many Keans who never acted but in barns, many Van- 
dyks who never earned more than sixpence a day, many 
Goldsmiths who never were better than penny-a-liners, 
many Michaels who never built their St. Peters ; and 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 133 

perhaps a Shakespeare who held horses at the theatre 
door for pence, as the Shakespeare we know of did, and 
who stopped there. 

Let it here be suggested, that it is highly illogical to 
conclude that you are yourself a person of whom a great 
deal more might have been made, merely because you 
are a person of whom it is the fact that very little has 
actually been made. This suggestion may appear a tru- 
ism ; but it is one of those simple truths of which we al 
need to be occasionally reminded. After all, the great 
test of what a man can do, must be what a man does. 
But there are folk who live on the reputation of being 
pebbles capable of receiving a very high polish, though 
from circumstances they did not choose to be polished. 
There are people who stand high in general estimation 
on the ground of what they might have done if they had 
liked. You will find students who took no honors at the 
university, but who endeavor to impress their friends with 
the notion that if they had chosen, they could have at- 
tained to unexampled eminence. And sometimes, no 
doubt, there are great powers that run to waste. There 
have been men whose doings, splendid as they were, were 
no more than a hint of how much more they could have 
done. In such a case as that of Coleridge, you see how 
the lack of steady industry, and of all sense of respon- 
sibility, abated the tangible result of the noble intellect 
God gave him. But as a general rule, and in the case 
of ordinary people, you need not give a man credit for 
the possession of any powers beyond those which he has 
actually exhibited. If a boy is at the bottom of his class, 
it is probably because he could not attain its top. My 
friend Mr. Snarling thinks he can write much better arti- 
cles than those which appear in any of the magazines ; 



134 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

but as lie has not done so, I am not inclined to give hina 
credit for the achievement. But you can see that this 
principle of estimating people's abilities not by what they 
have done, but by what they think they could do, will be 
much approved by persons who are stupid, and at the 
same time conceited. It is a pleasing arrangement that 
every man should fix his own mental mark, and hold by 
his estimate of himself. And then, never measuring his 
strength with others, he can suppose that he could have 
beat them if he had tried. 

Yes, we are all mainly fashioned by circumstances ; 
and had the circumstances been more propitious, they 
might have made a great deal more of us. You some- 
times think, middle-aged man, who never have passed the 
limits of Britain, what an effect might have been pro- 
duced upon your views and character by foreign travel. 
You think what an indefinite expansion of mind it might 
have caused; how many narrow prejudices it might have 
rubbed away ; how much wiser and better a man it might 
have made you. Or more society and wider reading in 
your early youth might have improved you ; might have 
taken away the shyness and the intrusive individuality 
which you sometimes feel painfully ; might have called 
out one cannot say what of greater confidence and larger 
sympathy. How very little, you think to yourself, you 
have seen and known ! While others skim great libra- 
ries, you read the same few books over and over ; while 
others come to know many lands and cities, and the faces 
and ways of many men, you look, year after year, on the 
same few square miles of this world, and you have to 
form your notion of human nature from the study of but 
few human beings, and these very commonplace. Per- 
haps it is as w^ell. It is not so certain that more w ould 



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 135 

have been made of you if you had enjoyed what might 
seem greater advantages. Perhaps you learned more by 
studying the little field before you earnestly and long, 
than you would have learned if you had bestowed a cur- 
sory glance upon fields more extensive by far. Perhaps 
there was compensation for the fewness of the cases you 
had to observe, in the keenness with which you were able 
to observe them. Perhaps the Great Disposer saw that 
in your case the pebble got nearly all the polishing it 
would stand ; the man nearly all the chances he could 
improve. 

If there be soundness and justice in this suggestion, 
it may afford consolation to a considerable class of men 
and women. I mean those people who, feeling within 
themselves many defects of character, and discerning in 
their outward lot much which they would w^ish other 
than it is, are ready to think that some one thing would 
have put them right ; that some one thing would put 
them right even yet ; but something which they have 
hopelessly missed, something which can never be. There 
was just one testing event, which stood between them 
and their being made a vast deal more of. They would 
have been far better and far happier, they think, had 
some single malign influence been kept away which has 
darkened all their life ; or had some single blessing been 
given which would have made it happy. If you had 
got such a parish which you did not get ; if you had 
married such a woman ; if your little child had not died ; 
if you had always the society and sympathy of such an 
energetic and hopeful friend ; if the scenery round your 
dwelling were of a different character ; if the neighbor- 
ing town were four miles off instead of fifteen ; if any 
one of these circumstances had been altered, what a dif- 



136 CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM 

ferent man you might have been ! Probably many 
people, even of middle age, conscious that the manifold 
cares and womes of life forbid that it should be evenly 
joyous, do yet cherish, at the bottom of their heart, some 
vague yet rooted fancy, that if but one thing were given 
on which they had set their hearts, or one care removed 
forever, they would be perfectly happy, even here. Per- 
haps you overrate the effect which would have been pro- 
duced on your character by such a single cause. It 
might not have made you much better ; it might not 
even have made you very different. And assuredly 
you are wrong in fancying that any such single thing 
could have made you happy ; that is, entirely happy. 
Nothing in this world could ever make you that It ia 
not God's purpose that we should be entirely happy 
here. " This is not our rest." The day will never 
come which will not bring its worry. And the possi- 
bility of terrible misfortune and sorrow hangs over all. 
There is but one place where we shall be right ; and 
that is far away. 

Yes, more might have been made of all of us ; prob- 
ably, in the case of most, not much more will be made 
in this world. We are now, if we have reached middle 
life, very much what we shall be to the end of the chap- 
ter. We shall not, in this w^orld, be much better ; let 
us humbly trust that we shall not be worse. Yet, if 
there be an undefinable sadness in looking at the marred 
material of which so much more might have been made, 
there is a sublime hopefulness in the contemplation of 
material, bodily and mental, of which a great deal more 
and better wull certainly yet be made. Not much more 
may be made of any of us in life ; but who shall estimate 



MOKE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE. 137 

what may be made of us in immortality ? Think of a 
" spiritual body ; " think of a perfectly pure and happy 
soul ! I thought of this on a beautiful evening of this 
summer, walking with a much valued friend through a 
certain grand ducal domain. In front of a noble sep- 
ulchre, where is laid up much aristocratic dust, there 
are sculptured by some great artist, three colossal faces, 
which are meant to represent Life, Death, and Immor- 
tality. It was easy to represent death : the face was one 
of solemn rest, with closed eyes ; and the sculptor's skill 
was mainly shown in distinguishing Life from Immor- 
tality. And he had done it well. There was Life, a 
careworn, anxious, weary face, that seemed to look at 
you earnestly, and with a vague inquiry for something 
— the something that is lacking in all things here. And 
there was Immortality : life-like, but oh ! how different 
from mortal Life ! There was the beautiful face ; calm, 
satisfied, self-possessed, sublime ; and with eyes looking 
far away. I see it ^%\^ the crimson sunset warming the 
gray stone ; and a great hawthorn tree, covered with 
blossoms, standing by. Yes, there was Immortality ; and 
you felt, as you looked at it, that it was more made of 

MFE ! 



CHAPTER YL 

CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO CARRIED WEIGHT 

IN LIFE. 

WITH SOME THOUGHTS ON THOSE WHO NEVER HAI 

A CHANCE. 

^^S^^^fp^OU drive out, let us suppose, upon a cer- 
(3;"^^^^ tain day. To your surprise and mortifica- 
^^%#^^ tion, your horse, usually lively and frisky, 

'"^^^^^x^ is quite dull and sluggish. He does not 
jrt't over the ground as he is wont to do. The slightest 
touch of whipcord, on other days, suffices to make him 
dart forward with redoubled speed ; but upon this day, 
after two or three miles, he needs positive whipping, 
and he runs very sulkily with it alL By and bye his 
coat, usually smooth and glossy and dry through all 
reasonable work, begins to stream like a water-cart. 
This will not do. There is something wrong. You 
mvestigate ; and you discover that your horse's w^ork, 
though seemingly the same as usual, is in fact im- 
mensely greater. The blockheads who oiled your wheels 
yesterday have screwed up your patent axles too tightly ; 
the Ci'iction is enormous ; the hotter the metal gets, the 
greater grows the friction ; your horse's work is quad- 
rupled. You drive slowly home ; and severely upbraid 
the blockheads. 

There are many people who have to go through life 
at an analogous disadvantage. There is something in 



CARRYING WEIGHT IN LIFE. 139 

their constitution of body or mind ; there is something in 
their circumstances ; which adds incalculably to the ex- 
ertion they must go through to attain their ends ; and 
which holds them back from doing what they might 
otherwise have done. Very probably, that malign some- 
thing exerted its influence unperceived by those around 
them. They did not get credit for the struggle they 
were making. No one knew what a brave fight they 
were making with a broken right arm ; no one remarked 
that they were running the race, and keeping a fair 
place in it too, with their legs tied together. All they 
do, they do at a disadvantage. It is as when a noble 
race-horse is beaten by a sorry hack ; because the race- 
horse, as you might see if you look at the list, is carry- 
ing twelve pounds additional. But such men, by a des- 
perate effort, often made silently and sorrowfully, may 
(so to speak) run in the race ; and do well in it ; though 
you little think with how heavy a foot and how heavy a 
heart. There are others, who have no chance at all. 
They are like a horse set to run a race, tied by a strong 
rope to a tree ; or weighted with ten tons of extra bur- 
den. That horse cannot run, even poorly. The differ- 
ence between their case and that of the men who are 
placed at a disadvantage, is like the difference between 
setting a very near-sighted man to keep a sharp look- 
out, and setting a man who is quite blind to keep that 
sharp look-out. Many can do the w^ork of life with 
difficulty ; some cannot do it at all. In short, there are 
PEOPLE WHO CARRY WEIGHT IN LIFE ; and there are 

some WHO NEVER HAVE A CHANCE. 

And you, my friend, who are doing the w^ork of life 
well and creditably : you who are running in the front 
rank, and likely to do so to the end ; think kindly and 



140 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

charitably of those who have broken down in the race. 
Think kindly of him who, sadly over-weighted, is strug* 
gling onwards away half-a-mile behind you ; think more 
kindly jet, if that be possible, of him who, tethered to a 
ton of granite, is struggling hard and making no way at 
all ; or who has even sat down and given up the struggle 
in dumb despair. You feel, I know, the weakness in 
yourself which would have made you break down if sore- 
ly tried like others. You know there is in your armor 
the unprotected place, at which a well-aimed or a random 
blow would have gone home and brought you down. Yes, 
you are nearing the winning-post, and you are among the 
first ; but six pounds more on your back, and you might 
have been nowhere. You feel, by your weak heart and 
weary frame, that if you had been sent to the Crimea in 
that dreadful first winter, you would certainly have died. 
And you feel, too, by your lack of moral stamina, by your 
feebleness of resolution, that it has been your preserva- 
tion from you know not what depths of shame and misery, 
that you never were pressed very hard by temptation. 
Do not range yourself with those who found fault with a 
certain great and good Teacher of former days, because 
he went to be guest with a man that was a sinner. As if 
He could have gone to be guest with any man who was 
not! 

There is no reckoning up the manifold impedimenta by 
which human beings are weighted for the race of life; 
but all may be classified under the two heads of unfavor- 
able influences arising out of the mental or physical na- 
ture of the human beings themselves, and unfavorable 
influences arising out of the circumstances in which the 
human beings are placed. You have known men who, 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 141 

setting out from a very humble position, have attained to 
a respectable standing : but who would have reached a 
very much higher place but for their being weighted with 
a vulgar, violent, wrong-headed, and rude-spoken wife 
You have known men of lowly origin, who had in them 
the makings of gentlemen ; but whom this single malign 
influence has condemned to coarse manners and a frowsy 
repulsive home for life. You have known many men 
whose powers are crippled and their nature soured by 
poverty ; by the heavy necessity for calculating how far 
each shilling will go ; by a certain sense of degradation 
that comes of sordid shifts. How can a poor parson 
write an eloquent or spirited sermon, when his mind all 
the while is running upon the thought how he is to pay 
the baker, or how he is to get shoes for his children ? It 
will be but a dull discourse which, under that weight, will 
be produced even by a man who, favorably placed, could 
have done very considerable things. It is only a great 
genius here and there who can do great things, who can 
do his best, no matter at what disadvantage he may be 
placed ; the great mass of ordinary men can make little 
headway with wind and tide dead against them. Not 
many trees would grow well if watered daily (let us say) 
with vitriol. Yet a tree which would speedily die under 
that nurture, might do very fairly, might even do magnifi- 
cently, if it had fair play ; if it got its chance of common 
sunshine and shower. Some men, indeed, though always 
hampered by circumstances, have accomplished much ; 
but then you cannot help thinking how much more they 
might have accomplished had they been placed more hap- 
pily. Pugin, the great Gothic architect, designed vari- 
ous noble buildings ; but I believe he complained that he 
never had fair play with his finest: that he was always 



142 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

weighted by considerations of expense, or by the nature 
of the ground he had to build on, or by the number of 
people it was essential the building should accommodate. 
And so he regarded his noblest edifices as no more than 
hints of what he could have done. He made grand run- 
ning in the race ; but oh what running he could have 
made if you had taken off those twelve additional pounds ! 
I dai e say you have known men who labored to make a 
pretty country-house on a site which had Some one great 
drawback. They were always battling with that draw- 
back, and trying to conquer it ; but they never could 
quite succeed. And it remained a real worry and vexa- 
tion. Their house was on the north side of a high hill, 
and never could have its due share of sunshine. Or you 
could not reach it but by climbing a very steep ascent ; 
or you could not in any way get water into the landscape. 
When Sir Walter was at length able to call his own a 
little estate on the banks of the Tweed he loved so well, 
it was the ugliest, bleakest, and least interesting spot up- 
on the course of that beautiful river; and the public road 
ran within a few yards of his door. The noble-hearted 
man made a charming dwelling at last ; but he was fight- 
ing against nature in the matter of the landscape round 
it ; and you can see yet, many a year after he left it, the 
poor little trees of his beloved plantations, contrasting 
with the magnificent timber of various grand old places 
above and below Abbotsford. There is something saddei 
in the sight of men who carried weight within themselves ; 
and who, in aiming at usefulness or at happiness, were 
hampered and held back by their own nature. There 
are many men who are weighted with a hasty temper ; 
weighted with a nervous, anxious constitution ; weighted 
with an envious, jealous disposition ; weighted with a 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 14JI 

strong tendency to evil speaking, lying, and slander- 
ing; weighted with a grumbling, sour, discontented spir- 
it ; weighted with a disposition to vaporing and boasting ; 
weighted with a great want of common sense ; weighted 
w'ith an undue regard to what other people may be think- 
ing or saying of them ; weighted with many like things 
of which more will be said by and bye. When that good 
missionary, Henry Martyn, was in India, he was weighted 
with an irresistible drowsiness. He could hardly keep 
himself awake. And it must have been a burning ear- 
nestness that impelled him to ceaseless labor, in the pres- 
ence of such a drag-weight as that. I am not thinking 
or saying, my friend, that it is wholly bad for us to carry 
weight ; that great good may not come of the abatement 
of our power and spirit which may be made by that 
weight. I remember a greater missionary than even the 
sainted Martyn, to whom the Wisest and Kindest ap- 
pointed that he should carry weight, and that he should 
fight at a sad disadvantage. And the greater missionary 
tells us that he knew why that w^eight was appointed him 
to carry ; and that he felt he needed it all to save him 
from a strong tendency to undue self-conceit. No one 
knows, now, what the burden w^as which he bore ; but it 
was heavy and painful ; it was " a thorn in the flesh ; *' 
three times he earnestly asked that it might be taken 
away ; but the answer he got implied that he needed it 
yet ; and that his Master thought it a better plan to 
strengthen the back than to lighten the burden. Yes, 
the blessed Redeemer appointed that St. Paul should 
carry weight in life ; and I think, friendly reader, that w^e 
shall believe that it is wisely and kindly meant, if the 
like should come to you and me. 

We all understand what is meant when w^e hear it 



144 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

is said that a man is doing very well, or has done very 
well, considering, I do not know whether it is a Scot- 
ticism to stop short at that point of the sentence. We 
do it, constantly, in this country : the sentence would be 
completed by saying, considering the weight he has to 
carry J or the disadvantage at which he works. And things 
which are very good, considering, may range very far up 
and down the scale of actual merit. A thing which is 
very good, considering, may be very bad, or may be tol- 
erably good. It never can be absolutely very good ; for, 
if it were, you would cease to use the word considering. 
A thing which is absolutely very good, if it have been 
done under extremely unfavorable circumstances, would 
not be described as very good, considering ; it would be de- 
scribed as quite wonderful, considering, or as miraculous 
considering. And it is curious how people take a pride 
in accumulating unfavorable circumstances, that they may 
overcome them, and gain the glory of having overcome 
them. Thus, if a man wishes to sign his name, he might 
write the letters with his right hand ; and though he write 
them very clearly and well and rapidly, nobody would think 
of giving him any credit. But if he write his name rather 
badly with his left hand, people would say it was a remark- 
able signature, considering. And if he wrote his name, 
very ill indeed, with his foot, people would say the writing 
was quite wonderful, considering. If a man desire to walk 
from one end of a long building, to the other, he might do 
60 by walking along the floor ; and though he did so stead- 
ily, swiftly, and gracefully, no one would remark that he 
had done anything worth notice. But if he choose for his 
path a thick rope, extended from one end of the building 
to the other, at a height of a hundred feet ; and if he walk 
rather slowly and awkwardly along it, he will be esteemed 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 145 

as having done something very extraordinary ; while if, in 
addition to this, he is blindfolded, and has his feet placed 
in large baskets instead of shoes, he will, if in any way 
he can get over the distance between the ends of the 
building, be held as one of the most remarkable men of 
the age. Yes, load yourself with weight which no one 
asks you to carry : accumulate disadvantages which you 
need not face unless you choose ; then carry the weight in 
any fashion, and overcome the disadvantages in any fash- 
ion ; and you are a great man, considering ; that is, con- 
sidering the disadvantages and the weight. Let this be 
remembered : if a man is so placed that he cannot do his 
work, except in the face of special difficulties, then let him 
be praised if he vanquish these in some decent measure, 
and if he do his work tolerably well. But a man de- 
serves no praise at all for work which he has done tolera- 
bly or done rather badly, because he chose to do it under 
disadvantageous circumstances, under which there was no 
earthly call upon him to do it. In this case he probably 
is a self-conceited man, or a man of wrong-headed inde- 
pendence of disposition ; and in this case, if his work be 
bad absolutely, don't tell him that it is good, considering. 
Refuse to consider. He has no right to expect that you 
should. There was a man who built a house entirely with 
his own hands. He had never learned either mason work 
or carpentry : he could quite well have afforded to pay 
skilled workmen to do the work he wanted ; but he did 
not choose to do so. He did the whole work himself. 
The house was finished : its aspect was peculiar. The 
walls were off the perpendicular considerably, and the 
windows were singular in shape, the doors fitted badly, 
and the floors were far from level. In short, it was a 
very bad and awkward-looking house ; but it was a won- 
10 



146 CONCER^^ING PEOPLE WHO 

derful house, considering. And people said that it was 
so, who saw nothing wonderful in the beautiful house 
next it, perfect in symmetry and finish and comfort, but 
built by men whose business it was to build. Now, I 
should have declined to admire that odd house, or to ex- 
press the least sympathy with its builder. He chose to 
run with a needless hundredweight on his back : he chcso 
to walk in baskets instead of in shoes. And if, in conse- 
quence of his own perversity, he did his work badly, I 
should have refused to recognize it as anything but bad 
work. It was quite different with Robinson Crusoe, who 
made his dwelling and his furniture for himself, because 
there was no one else to make them for him I dare say 
his cave was anything but exactly square, and his chairs 
and tables were cumbrous enough ; but they were wonder- 
ful, considering certain facts which he was quite entitled to 
expect us to consider. Southey's Cottonian Library was 
all quite right ; and you would have said that the books 
were very nicely bound, considering ; for Southey could 
not afford to pay the regular binder's charges ; and it was 
better that his books should be done up in cotton of 
various hues by the members of his own family, than 
that they should remain not bound at all. You will 
think, too, of the poor old parson who wrote a book 
which he thought of great value, but which no pub- 
isher would bring out. He was determined that all 
his labor should not be lost to posterity. So he bought 
types and a printing-press, and printed his precious work, 
poor man ; he and his man-servant did it all. It made a 
great many volumes ; and the task took up many years. 
Then he bound the volumes with his own hands ; and 
carrying them to London, he placed a copy of his work 
in each of the public libraries. I dare say he might have 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 147 

saved himself his labor. How many of my readers could 
tell what was the title of the work, or what was the name 
of its author ? Still, there was a man who accomplished 
his design, in the face of every disadvantage. 

There is a great point of difference between our feel- 
inor towards the human beinoj who runs his race much 
overweighted, and our feeling towards the inferior animal 
that does the like. If you saw a poor horse gamely 
struggling in a race, with a weight of a ton extra, you 
would pity it. Your sympathies would all be with the 
creature that was making tlie best of unfavorable circum- 
stances. But it is a sorrowful fact, that the drag weight 
of human beings not unfrequently consists of things which 
make us angry rather than sympathetic. You have seei\ 
a man carrying heavy weight in life, perhaps in the form 
of inveterate wrongheadedness and suspiciousness ; but 
instead of pitying him, our impulse would rather be to 
beat him upon that perverted head. We pity physical 
malformation or unhealthiness ; but our bent is to be 
angry with intellectual and moral malformation or un- 
healthiness. We feel for the deformed man, w^ho must 
struggle on at that sad disadvantage ; feeling it, too, 
much more acutely than you would readily believe. But 
we have only indignation for the man weighted with far 
worse things ; and things which, in some cases at least, 
he can just as little help. You have known men whose 
extra pounds, or even extra ton, was a hasty temper, fly- 
ing out of a sudden into ungovernable bursts : or a moral 
cowardice leading to trickery and falsehood : or a special 
disposition to envy and evil speaking : or a very strong 
tendency to morbid complaining about his misfortunes and 
troubles : or an invincible bent to be always talking of 



148 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

liis sufferings through the derangement of his digestive 
organs. Now, you grow angry at these things. You 
cannot stand them. And there is a substratum of truth 
to that angry feehng. A man can form his mind more 
than he can form his body. If a man be well-made, 
physically, he will, in ordinary cases, remain so : but he 
may, in a moral sense, raise a great hunchback where 
nature made none. He may foster a malignant temper, 
a grumbling, fretful spirit, which by manful resistance 
might be much abated, if not quite put down. But still, 
there should often be pity, where we are prone only to 
blame. We find a person in whom a truly disgusting 
character has been formed : well, if you knew all, you 
would know that the person had hardly a chance of being 
otherwise : the man could not help it. You have known 
people who were awfully unamiable and repulsive : you 
may have been told how very different they once were, 
— sweet-tempered and cheerful. And surely the change 
is a far sadder one than that which has passed upon the 
wrinkled old woman, who was once (as you are told) the 
loveliest girl of her time. Yet many a one who will look 
with interest upon the withered face and the dimmed 
eyes, and try to trace in them the vestiges of radiant 
beauty gone, will never think of puzzling out in violent 
spurts of petulance the perversion of a quick and kind 
heart ; or in curious oddities and pettinesses the result of 
long and lonely years of toil in which no one sympa- 
thized ; or in cynical bitterness and misanthropy, an old 
disappointment never got over. There is a hard knot in 
the wood, where a green young branch was lopped away. 
I have a great pity for old bachelors. Those I have 
known have for the most part been old fools. But the 
more foolish and absurd they are, the more pity is due to 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 149 

them. I believe there is something to be said for even 
the most unamiable creatures. The shark is an unamia- 
ble creature. It is voracious. It will snap a man in 
two. Yet it is not unworthy of sympathy. Its organiz- 
ation is such that it is always suffering the most ravenous 
hunger. You can hardly imagine the state of intolerable 
famine in which that unhappy animal roams the ocean. 
People talk of its awful teeth and its vindictive eye. I 
suppose it is well ascertained that the extremity of physi- 
cal want, as reached on rafts at sea, has driven human 
beings to deeds as barbarous as ever shark was accused 
of. The worse a human being is, the more he deserves 
our pity. Hang him, if that be needful for the welfare 
of society ; but pity him even as you hang. Many a 
poor creature has gradually become hardened and invet- 
erate in guilt, who would have shuddered at first had the 
excess of it ultimately reached been at first presented to 
view. But the precipice was sloped off: the descent was 
made step by step. And there is many a human being 
who never had a chance of being good : many who have 
been trained, and even compelled, to evil from very in- 
fancy. Who that knows anything of our great cities, 
but knows how the poor little child, the toddling innocent, 
is sometimes sent out day by day to steal ; and received 
in his wretched home with blows and curses if he fail to 
bring back enough : who has not heard of such poor little 
things, unsuccessful in their sorry work, sleeping all night 
in some wintry stair, because they durst not venture back 
to their drunken, miserable, desperate parents ? I could 
tell things at which angels might shed tears, with much 
better reason for doing so than seems to me to exist in 
some of those more imposing occasions on which bom- 
bastic writers are wont to describe them as weeping. Ah, 



150 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

there is One who knows where the responsibility for all 
this rests ! Not wholly with the wretched parents : far 
from that. They, too, have gone through the like : they 
had as little chance as their children, lliey deserve our 
deepest pity too. Perhaps the deeper pity is not due to 
the shivering, starving child, with the bitter wind cutting 
through its thin rags, and its blue feet on the frozen pave- 
ment, holding out a hand that is like the claw of some 
beast, but rather to the brutalized mother who could thus 
send out the infant she bore. Surely the mother's condi- 
tion, if we look at the case aright, is the more deplorable. 
Would not you, my reader, rather endure any degree of 
cold and hunger than come to this ! Doubtless, there is 
blame somewhere that such things should be : but we all 
know that the blame of the most miserable practical evils 
and failures can hardly be traced to particular individuals. 
It is through the incapacity of scores of public servants 
that an army is starved. It is through the fault of mil- 
lions of people ' that our great towns are what they are : 
and it must be confessed that the actual responsibility is 
spread so thinly over so great a surface, that it is hard to 
say it rests very blackly upon any one spot. Oh, that we 
could but know whom to hang, when w^e find some fla- 
grant, crying evil ! Unluckily, hasty people are ready to 
be content if they can but hang anybody, without mind- 
ing much whether that individual be more to blame than 
many beside. Laws and kings have something to do 
here : but management and foresight on the part of the 
poorer classes have a great deal more to do. And no 
laws can make many persons managing or provident. I 
do not hesitate to say, from w^hat I have myself seen of 
the poor, that the same short-sighted extravagance, the 
isame recklessness of consequences, which are frequently 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LII^E. 151 

found in them, would cause quite as much misery if they 
prevailed in a like degree among people with a thou:^and 
a-year. But it seems as if only tolerably well-to-do peo- 
ple have the heart to be provident and self-denying. A 
man with a few hundreds annually does not marry unless 
he thinks he can afford it : but the workman with fifteen 
shillings a-week is profoundly indifferent to any such cal- 
culation. I firmly believe that the sternest of all self- 
denial is that practised by those who, when we divide 
mankind into rich and poor, must be classed (I suppose) 
with the rich. But I turn away from a miserable sub- 
ject, through which I cannot see my way clearly, and on 
which I cannot think but with unutterable pain. It is an 
easy way of cutting the knot to declare that the rich are 
the cause of all the sufferings of the poor ; but when we 
look at the case in all its bearings, we shall see that thai 
is rank nonsense. And on the other hand, it is unques- 
tionable that the rich are bound to do something. But 
what ? I should feel deeply indebted to any one who 
would write out, in a few short and intelligible sentences, 
the practical results that are aimed at in the Song of the 
Shirt, The misery and evil are manifest : but tell us 
whom to hang ; tell us what to do ! 

One heavy burden with which many men are weighted 
for the race of life, is depression of spirits. I wonder 
whether this used to be as common in former days as it 
is now. There was, indeed, the man in Homer, who 
walked by the sea-shore in a very gloomy mood ; but 
his case seems to have been thought remarkable. What 
is it in our modern mode of life, and our infinity of cares; 
what little thing is it about the matter of the brain, or the 
flow of the blood, that makes the difference between buoy- 



152 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

ant cheerfulness and deep depression ? I begin to think 
that ahiiost all educated people, and especially all whose 
work is mental rather than physical, suffer more or less 
from this indescribable gloom. And although a certain 
amount of sentimental sadness may possibly help the 
poet, or the imaginative writer, to produce material which 
may be very attractive to the young and inexperienced, I 
suppose it will be admitted by all that cheerfulness and 
hopefulness are noble and healthful stimulants to worthy 
effort, and that depression of spirits does (so to speak) 
cut the sinews with which the average man must do the 
work of life. You know how lightly the buoyant heart 
carries people through entanglements and labors under 
which the desponding would break down, or which they 
never would face. Yet, in thinking of the commonness 
of depressed spirits, even where the mind is otherwise 
very free from anything morbid, we should remember 
that there is a strong temptation to believe that this de- 
pression is more common and more prevalent than it 
truly is. Sometimes there is a gloom which overcasts 
all life, like that in wdiich James Watt lived and worked, 
and served his race so nobly ; like that from which the 
gentle, amiable poet, James Montgomery, suffered through 
his whole career. But in ordinary cases the gloom is 
temporary and transient. Even the most depressed are 
not always so. Like, we know, suggests like powerfully. 
If you are placed in some peculiar conjuncture of circum- 
stances, or if you pass through some remarkable scene, 
the present scene or conjuncture will call up before you 
in a way that startles you, something like itself which 
you had long forgotten, and which you would never have 
remembered but for this touch of some mysterious spring. 
And accordingly, a man depressed in spirits thinks that 



CARRIED WEIGHT IX LIFE. 153 

he is always so, or at least fancies that such depression 
has given the color to his life in a very much greater 
degree than it actually has done so. For this dark sea* 
son wakens up the remembrance of many similar dark 
seasons w^hich in more cheerful days are quite forgot, and 
these cheerful days drop out of memory for the time. 
Hearing such a man speak, if he speak out his heart to 
you, you think him inconsistent, perhaps you think him 
insincere. You think he is saying more than he truly 
feels. It is not so ; he feels and believes it all at the 
time. But he is taking a one-sided view of things ; he is 
undergoing the misery of it acutely for the time : by and 
bye he will see things from quite a different point. A 
very eminent man (there can be no harm in referring 
to a case which he himself made so public) wrote and 
published something about his miserable home. He was 
quite sincere, I do not doubt. He thought so at the time. 
He was miserable just then ; and so, looking back on past 
years, he could see nothing but misery. But the case was 
not really so, one could feelsure. There had been a vast 
deal of enjoyment about his home and his lot ; it was for- 
gotten, then. A man in very low spirits, reading over his 
diary, somehow lights upon and dwells upon all the sad 
and wounding things ; he involuntarily skips the rest, or 
reads them with but faint perception of their meaning. 
In reading the very Bible, he does the like thing. He 
chances upon that which is in unison with his present 
mood, I think there is no respect in which this great 
law of the association of ideas holds more strictly true, 
tlian in the power of a present state of mind, or a pres- 
ent state of outward circumstances, to bring up vividly 
before us all such states in our past history. We are 
depressed, we are worried ; and when w^e look back, all 



154 CONCERNLNTG PEOPLE WHO 

our departed days of worrj and depression appear tc 
start up and press themselves upon our view to the ex- 
(dusion of anything else : so that we are ready to think 
that we have never been otherwise than depressed and 
worried all our life. But when more cheerful times 
come, they suggest only such times of cheerfulness, and 
no effort will bring back the depression vividly as when 
we felt it. It is not selfishness or heartlessness, it is the 
result of an inevitable law of mind, that people in happy 
circumstances should resolutely believe that it is a happy 
world after all ; for looking back, and looking around, the 
mind refuses to take distinct note of anything that is not 
somewhat akin to its present state. And so, if any ordi- 
nary man, who is not a distempered genius or a great fool, 
tells you that he is always miserable, don't believe him. 
He feels so now, but he does not always feel so. There 
are periods of brightening in the darkest lot. Very, 
very few live in unvarying gloom. Not but what there 
IS something very pitiful (by which I mean deserving of 
pity) in what may be termed the Micawber style of 
mind ; in the stage of hysteric oscillations between joy 
and misery. Thoughtless readers of David Copperjield 
laugh at Mr. Micawber, and his rapid passages from the 
depth of despair to the summit of happiness, and back 
again. But if you have seen or experienced that mor- 
bid condition, you would know that there is more reason 
to mourn over it than to laugh at it. There is acute 
misery felt now and then ; and there is a pervading, 
never-departing sense of the hollowness of the morbid 
mirth. It is but a very few degrees better than " moody 
madness, laughing wild, amid severest woe." By depres- 
sion of spirits, I understand a dejection without any 
^•ause that could be stated, or from causes which in a 



CARRIED WEIGHT IX LIFE. 155 

healthj mind would produce no such degree of dejec- 
tion. No doubt many men can remember seasons of de- 
jection which was not imaginary, and of anxiety and 
misery whose causes were only too real. You can re- 
member, perhaps, the dark time in which you knew quite 
well what it was that made it so dark. Well, better days 
have come. That sorrowful, wearing time, which ex- 
hausted the springs of life faster than ordinary living 
would have done, which aged you in heart and frame 
before your day, dragged over, and it is gone. You 
carried heavy weight, indeed, while it lasted. It was 
but poor running you made, poor work you did, with 
that feeble, anxious, disappointed, miserable heart. And 
you would many a time have been thankful to creep into 
a quiet grave. Perhaps that season did you good. Per- 
haps it was the discipline you needed. Perhaps it took 
out your self-conceit, and made you humble. Perhaps 
it disposed you to feel for the grief and cares of others, 
and made you sympathetic. Perhaps, looking back now, 
you can discern the end it served. And now that it has 
done its work, and that it only stings you when you look 
back, let that time be quite forgotten ! 

There are men, and very clever men, who do the work 
of life at a disadvantage, through this^ that their mind is 
a machine fitted for doing well only one kind of work; or 
that their mind is a machine which, though doing many 
things well, does some one thing, perhaps a conspicuous 
thing, very poorly. You find it hard to give a man 
credit for being possessed of sense and talent, if you 
hear him make a speech at a public dinner, which speech 
approaches the idiotic for its silliness and confusion. 
And the vulgar mind readily concludes that he who does 



156 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

one thing extremely ill, can do nothing well ; and that 
he who is ignorant on one point, is ignorant on all. A 
friend of mine, a country parson, on first going to his 
parish, resolved to farm his glebe for himself. A neigh- 
boring farmer kindly offered the parson to plough one of 
his fields. The farmer said that he would send his man 
John with a plough and a pair of horses on a certain 
day. " If ye 're goin' aboot," said the farmer to the 
clergyman, " John will be unco' weel pleased if you 
speak to him, and say it's a fine day, or the like o' 
that ; but dinna," said the farmer, with much solemnity, 
" dinna say onything to him aboot ploughin' and sawin' ; 
for John," he added, " is a stupid body, but he has been 
ploughin' and sawin' all his hfe, and he'll see in a min- 
ute that ye ken naething aboot ploughin' and sawin'. 
And then," said the sagacious old farmer, with extreme 
earnestness, " if he comes to think that ye ken naething 
aboot ploughin' and sawin', he'll think that ye ken nae- 
thing aboot onything ! " Yes, it is natural to us all to 
think that if the machine breaks down at that work in 
which we are competent to test it, then the machine 
cannot do any work at all. 

If you have a strong current of water, you may turn 
it into any channel you please, and make it do any work 
you please. With equal energy and success it will flow 
north or south ; it will turn a corn-mill, or a threshing- 
machine, or a grindstone. Many people live under a 
vague impression that the human mind is like that. 
They think — Here is so much ability, so much energy, 
which may be turned in any direction, and made to do 
any work ; and they are surprised to find that the power, 
available and great for one kind of work, is w^orth noth- 
ing for another. A man very clever at one thing, is 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 157 

positively weak and stupid at another thing. A very 
good judge may be a wretchedly bad joker; and he must 
go through his career at this disadvantage, that people, 
finding him silly at the thing they are able to estimate, 
find it hard to believe that he is not silly at everything. 
I know for myself that it would not be right that the 
Premier should request me to look out for a suitable 
Chancellor. I am not competent to appreciate the depth 
of a man's knowledge of equity ; by which I do not mean 
justice, but chancery law. But though quite unable to 
understand how great a Chancellor Lord Eldon was, I 
am quite able to estimate how great a poet he was ; also 
how great a wit. Here is a poem by that eminent per- 
son. Doubtless he regarded it as a wonder of happy 
versification, as well as instinct with the most convulsing 
fun. It is intended to set out in a metrical form, the 
career of a certain judge, who went up as a poor lad 
from Scotland to England, but did well at the bar, and 
ultimately found his place upon the bench. Here is 
Lord Chancellor Eldon's humorous poem : 

James Allan Parke 
Came naked stark, 

From Scotland: 
But he got clothes, 
Like other beaux. 

In England ! 

Now the fact that Lord Eldon wrote that poem, and 
valued it highly, would lead some folk to suppose that 
Lord Eldon was next door to an idiot. And a good 
many other things which that Chancellor did, such as 
his quotations from Scripture in the House of Commons, 
and his attempts to convince that assemblage (when At- 
torney-General) that Napoleon L was the Apocalyptic 



158 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

Beast or the Little Horn, certainly point towards the 
same conclusion. But the conclusion, as a general one, 
would be wrong. No doubt Lord Eldon was a wise and 
sagacious man as judge and statesman, though as wit and 
poet he was almost an idiot. So with other great men. 
It is easy to remember occasions on which great men 
have done very foolish things. There never was a truei 
hero nor a greater commander than Lord Nelson ; but 
in some things he was merely an awkward, overgrown 
midshipman. But, then, let us remember, that a locomo- 
tive engine, though excellent at running, would be a poor 
hand at flying. That is not its vocation. The engine 
will draw fifteen heavy carriages fifty miles in an hour ; 
and that remains as a noble feat, even though it be as- 
certained that the engine could not jump over a brook 
which would be cleared easily by the veriest screw. We 
all see this. But many of us have a confused idea that a 
great and clever man is (so to speak) a locomotive that 
can fly ; and when it is proved that he cannot fly, then 
we begin to doubt whether he can even run. We think 
he should be good at everything, whether in his own line 
or not. And he is set at a disadvantage, particularly in 
the judgment of vulgar and stupid people, when it is 
clearly ascertained that at some things he is very infe- 
rior. I have heard of a very eminent preacher who 
sunk considerably (even as regards his preaching) in the 
estimation of a certain family, because it appeared that 
he played very badly at bowls. And we all know that 
occasionally the Premier already mentioned reverses the 
vulgar error, and in appointing men to great places, is 
guided by an axiom which amounts to just this: this loco- 
motive can run well, therefore it will fly well. This man 
has filled a certain position well, therefore let us appoint 



CAilRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 159 

him to a position entirely different ; no doubt he will do 
well there too. Here is a clergyman who has edited cer- 
tain Greek plays admirably : let us make him a bishop. 

It may be remarked here, that the men w^ho have at- 
tained the greatest success in the race of life, have gen- 
erally carried weight. Nitor in adversum might be the 
motto of many a man, besides Burke. It seems to be 
almost a general rule, that the raw material out of which 
the finest fabrics are made, should look very little lika 
these, to start with. It was a stammerer, of uncom 
manding mien, who became the greatest orator of grace- 
ful Greece. I believe it is admitted that Chalmers was 
the most effective preacher, perhaps the most telling 
speaker, that Britain has seen for at least a century ; yet 
Lis aspect was not dignified, his gestures were awkward, 
his voice was bad, and his accent frightful. He talked 
of an oppning when he meant an opening ; and he read 
out the text of one of his noblest sermons, *' He. that is 
fulthy, let him be fulthy stull." Yet who ever thought 
of these things, after hearing the good man for ten min- 
utes ! Aye, load Eclipse with what extra pounds you 
might, Eclipse w^ould always be first ! And, to descend 
to the race-horse, he had four white legs, white to the 
knees ; and he ran more awkwardly than racer ever did, 
with his head between his forelegs, close to the ground, 
like a pig. Alexander, Napoleon, and Wellington, were 
all little men ; in places where a commanding presence 
would have been of no small value. A most disagree- 
ably affected manner has not prevented a barrister, with 
no special advantages, from rising with general approval 
to the highest places which a barrister can fill. A hid- 
eous little w^retch has appeared for trial in a Criminal 



160 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

Court, having succeeded in marrying seven wives at 
once. A painful hesitation has not hindered a certain 
eminent person from being one of the principal speakers 
in the British Parliament, for many years. Yes, even 
disadvantaojes never overcome have not sufficed to hold 
in obscurity men who were at once able and fortunate. 
But sometimes the disadvantage was thoroughly over- 
come. Sometimes it served no other end than to draw 
to one point the attention and the efforts of a determined 
will ; and that matter, in regard to which nature seemed 
to have said that a man should fall short, became the 
thing in which he attained unrivalled perfection. 

A heavy drag-weight upon the powers of some men, 
is the uncertainty of their powers. The man has not his 
powers at command. His mind is a capricious thing, 
that works when it pleases, and will not work except 
w^hen it pleases. I am not thinking now of what to 
many is a sad disadvantage ; that nervous trepidation 
w^hich cannot be reasoned away, and which often deprives 
them of the full use of their mental abilities just when 
they are most needed. It is a vast thing in a man's 
favor that, whatever he can do, he should be able to do 
at any time, and to do at once. For want of coolness of 
mind, and that readiness which generally goes with it, 
many a man cannot do himself justice ; and in a delib- 
erative assembly he may be entirely beaten by some flip- 
pant person w^ho has all his money (so to speak) in his 
pocket, while the other must send to the bank for his. 
How many people can think next day, or even a few 
minutes after, of the precise thing they ought to have 
said, but which would not come at the time ! But very 
frequently the thing is of no value, unless it come at the 



CAKPJED WEIGUr IN LIFE. 161 

time when it is wanted. Coming next day, it is like the 
offer of a thick fur great-coat on a swehering day in July. 
You look at the wrap, and say, Oh if I could but have 
had you on the December night when I went to Lon- 
don by the limited mail, and was nearly starved to death ! 
But it seems as if the mind must be, to a certain extent, 
capricious in its action. Caprice, or what looks like it, 
appears of necessity to go with complicated machinery^ 
even material. The more complicated a machine is, the 
liker it grows to mind, in the matter of uncertainty and 
apparent caprice of action. The simplest machine — 
say a pipe for conveying water — will always act in pre- 
cisely the same way. And two such pipes, if of the 
same dimensions, and subjected to the same pressure, 
will always convey the self-same quantities. But go to 
more advanced machines. Take two clocks, or two loco- 
motive engines ; and though these are made in all re- 
spects exactly alike, they will act (I can answer at least 
for the locomotive engines) quite differently. One loco- 
motive will swallow a vast quantity of water at once ; 
another must be fed by driblets; no one can say why. 
One engine is a facsimile of the other; jei each has 
its character and its peculiarities, as truly as a man has. 
You need to know your engine's temper before driving 
it, just as much as you need to know that of your horse, 
or that of your friend. I know, of course, there is a 
mechanical reason for this seeming caprice, if you could 
trace the reason. But not one man in a thousand could 
trace out the reason. And the phenomenon, as it presses 
itself upon us, really amounts to this : that very compli- 
cated machinery appears to have a will of its own ; ap- 
pears to exercise something of the nature of choice. But 
thei'e is no machine so capricious as the human mind. 
11 



162 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

The great poet who wrote those beautiful verses, could 
not do that every day. A good deal more of what he 
writes is poor enough ; and many days he could not 
write at all. By long habit the mind may be made 
capable of being put in harness daily for the humbler 
task of producing prose ; but you cannot say, when you 
harness it in the morning, how far or at what rate it will 
run that day. 

Go and see a great organ, of w^hich you have been 
told. Touch it, and you hear the noble tones at once. 
The organ can produce them at any time. But go and 
see a great man ; touch him ; that is, get him to begin 
to talk. You will be much disappointed if you expect, 
certainly, to hear anything like his book or his poem. 
A great man is not a man w^ho is always saying great 
things ; or who is always able to say great things. He 
is a man who on a few occasions has said great things ; 
who on the coming of a sufficient occasion may possibly 
say great things again ; but the staple of his talk is com- 
monplace enough. Here is a point of difference from 
machinery, with all machinery's apparent caprice. You 
could not say, as you pointed to a steam-engine, The 
usual power of that engine is two hundred horses ; but 
once or twice it has surprised us all by working up to 
two thousand. No ; the engine is always of nearly the 
power of two thousand horses, if it ever is. But what 
we have been supposing as to the engme, is just what 
many men have done. Poe wrote The Raven ; he was 
working then up to two thousand horse power. But 
he wrote abundance of poor stuff, working at about 
twenty-five. Read straight through the volumes of 
Wordsworth : and I think you will find traces of the 
engine having worked at many different powers, vary- 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 163 

ing from twenty-five horses or less, up to two thousand 
or more. Go and hear a really great preacher when 
he is preaching in his own church upon a common Sun- 
day ; and possibly you may hear a very ordinary ser- 
mon. I have heard Mr. Melvill preach very poorly. 
You must not expect to find people always at their 
best. It is a very unusual thing that even the ablest 
men should be like Burke, who could not talk with an 
intelligent stranger for five minutes, without convincing 
the stranger that he had talked for five minutes with a 
great man. And it is an awful thing wdien some clever 
youth is introduced to some local poet who has been 
told how greatly the clever youth admires him ; and 
what vast expectations the clever youth has formed of 
his conversation ; and when the local celebrity makes a 
desperate effort to talk up to the expectations formed 
of him. I have witnessed such a scene ; and I can sin- 
cerely say that I could not previously have believed that 
the local celebrity could have made such a fool of him- 
self. He was resolved to show that he deserved his 
fame ; and to show that the mind w^hich had produced 
those lovely verses in the country ncAVspaper, could not 
stoop to commonplace things. 

Undue sensitiveness, and a too lowly estimate of their 
own powers, hang heavily upon some men ; probably 
upon more men than one w^ould imagine. I believe 
that many a man whom you w^ould take to be ambitious, 
pushing, and self-complacent, is ever pressed with a sad 
conviction of inferiority, and wishes nothing more than 
quietly to slip through life. It w^ould please and sat- 
isfy him if he could but be assured that he is just like 
other people. You may remember a touch of nature 



164 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

(that is, of some people's nature) in Burns ; you re- 
member the simple exultation of the peasant mother 
when her daughter gets a sweetheart : she is " well 
pleased to see her bairn respeckit like the lave^^ that is, 
like the other girls round. And undue humility, per- 
haps even befitting humility, holds back sadly in the 
race of life. It is recorded that a weaver in a certain 
village in Scotland, was wont daily to offer a singular 
petition ; he prayed daily and fervently for a better 
opinion of himself. Yes, a firm conviction of one's own 
importance is a great help in life. It gives dignity of 
bearing ; it does (so to speak) lift the horse over many 
a fence at which one with a less confident heart would 
have broken down. But the man who estimates him- 
self and his place humbly and justly, will be ready to 
shrink aside, and let men of greater impudence and not 
greater desert step before him. I have often seen, with 
a sad heart, in the case of working people, that manner, 
difficult to describe, which comes of being what we in 
Scotland sometimes call sair hadden down. I have seen 
the like in educated people too. And not very many 
will take the trouble to seek out and to draw out the 
modest merit that keeps itself in the shade. The en- 
ergetic, successful poople of this world are too busy in 
pushing each for himself, to have time to do that. You 
will find that people with abundant confidence, people 
who assume a good deal, are not unfrequently taken 
at their own estimate of themselves. I have seen a 
Queen's Counsel walk into court, after the case in which 
he was engaged had been conducted so far by his junior, 
and conducted as well as mortal could conduct it. But 
it was easy to see that the complacent air of superior 
strength with which the Queen's Counsel took the man* 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 165 

agement out of his junior's hands, conveyed to the jury 
(a common jury) the belief that things were now to be 
managed in quite different and vastly better style. And 
have you not known such a thing as that a family, not 
a whit better, wealthier, or more respectable than all 
the rest in the little country town or the country parish, 
do yet, by carrying their heads higher (no mortal could 
gay why), gradually elbow themselves into a place of 
admitted social superiority ? Everybody knows exactly 
what they are, and from what they have sprung ; but 
somehow, by resolute assumption, by a quiet air of 
being better than their neighbors, they draw ahead of 
them, and attain the glorious advantage of one step 
higher on the delicately graduated social ladder of the 
district. Now it is manifest that if such people had 
sense to see their true position, and the absurdity of 
their pretensions, they would assuredly not have gained 
that advantage, whatever it may be worth. 

But sense and feeling are sometimes burdens in the 
race of life ; that is, they sometimes hold a man back 
from grasping material advantages which he might have 
grasped had he not been prevented by the possession of 
a certain measure of common sense and right feeling. I 
doubt not, my friend, that you have acquaintances who 
can do things which you could not do for your life, and 
who by doing these things, push their way in life. They 
ask for what they want, and never let a chance go by 
them. And though they may meet many rebuffs, they 
Bometimes make a successful venture. Impudence some- 
times attains to a pitch of sublimity ; and at that point 
it has produced a very great impression upon many men. 
The incapable person who started for a professorship, has 
sometimes got it. The man who, amid the derision of 



166 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

the county, published his address to the electors, has oc- 
casionally got into the House of Commons. The vulgar, 
half-educated preacher, who without any introduction 
asked a patron for a vacant living in the Church, has 
now and then got the living. And however unfit you 
may be for a place, and however discreditable may 
have been the means by which you got it, once you have 
actually held it for two or three years, people come to 
acquiesce in your holding it. They accept the fact that 
you are there, just as we accept the fact that any other 
evil exists in this world, without asking why, except on 
very special occasions. I believe too, that in the matter 
of worldly preferment, there is too much fatalism in many 
good men. They have a vague trust that Providence 
will do more than it has promised. They are ready to 
think that if it is God's will that they are to gain such a 
prize, it will be sure to come their way without their 
pushing. That is a mistake. Suppose you apply the 
same reasoning to your dinner. Suppose you sit still in 
your study and say, " If I am to have dinner to-day, it 
will come without effort of mine ; and if I am not to have 
dinner to-day, it will not come by any effort of mine ; so 
here I sit still and do nothing." Is not that absurd ? 
Yet that is what many a wise and good man practically 
says about the place in life which would suit him, and 
which would make him happy. Not Turks and Hindoos 
alone have a tendency to believe in their Kismet. It is 
human to believe in that. And we grasp at every event 
that seems to favor the belief. The other evening, in 
the twilight, I passed two respectable-looking women, 
who seemed like domestic servants ; and I caught one 
sentence which one said to the other with great apparent 
faith. " You see," she said, " if a thing 's to come your 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 167 

way, it'll no gang by ye ! " It was in a crowded street 
but if it had been in my country parish where every one 
knew me, I should certainly have stopped the women, 
and told them that though what they said was quite true, 
I feared they were understanding it wrongly ; and that 
the firm belief we all hold in God's Providence which 
reaches to all events, and in His sovereignty which or* 
ders all things, should' be used to help us to be resigned, 
after we have done our best and failed ; but should never 
be used as an excuse for not doing our best. When we 
have set our mind on any honest end, let us seek to com- 
pass it by every honest means ; and if we fail after hav- 
ing used every honest means, then let us fall back on the 
comfortable belief that things are ordered by the Wisest 
and Kindest ; then is the time for the Fiat Voluntas Tua, 
You would not wish, my friend, to be deprived of com- 
mon sense and of delicate feeling, even though you could 
be quite sure that once that drag-weight was taken offf 
you would spring forward to the van, and make such 
running in the race of life as you never made before. 
Still you cannot help looking with a certain interest upon 
those people who, by the want of these hindering influ- 
ences, are enabled to do things and say things which you 
never could. I have sometimes looked with no small 
curiosity upon the kind of man who will come uninvited, 
and without w^arning of his approach, to stay at another 
man's house : who will stay on, quite comfortable and 
unmoved, though seeing plainly he is not wanted : who 
will announce, on arnving, that his visit is to be for three 
days, and who will then, without further remark, and 
without invitation of any kind, remain for a month or six 
weeks : and all the while sit down to dinner every day 
with a perfectly easy and unembarras-ed manner. You 



168 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

and J, my reader, would rather live on much less than 
sixpence a day than do all this. We could not do it. 
But some people not merely can do it, but can do it 
without any appearance of effort. Oh, if the people who 
are victimized by these horse-leeches of society could but 
gain a little of the thickness of skin which characterizes 
the horse-leeches, and bid them be off, and not return 
again till they are invited ! To the same pachyderma- 
tous class belong those individuals who will put all sorts 
of questions as to tlie private affairs of other people, but 
carefully shy off from any similar confidence as to their 
own affairs : also those individuals who borrow small 
sums of money and never repay them, but go on borrow- 
ing till the small sums amount to a good deal. To the 
same class may be referred the persons who lay them- 
selves out for saying disagreeable things : the " candid 
friends " of Canning : the " people who speak their mind," 
who form such pests of society. To find fault is to right- 
feeling men a very painful thing ; but some take to the 
w^ork with avidity and dehght. And while people of 
cultivation shrink, with a delicate intuition, from saying 
anything which may give pain or cause uneasiness to 
others, there are others who are ever painfully treading 
upon the moral corns of all around them. Sometimes 
this is done designedly : as by Mr. Snarling, who by long 
practice has attained the power of hinting and insinuating,^ 
in the course of a forenoon call, as many unpleasant things 
as may germinate into a crop of ill-tempers and worries 
which shall make the house at w^hich he called uncom- 
fortable all that day. Sometimes it is done unawares, as 
by Mr. Boor, who, through pure ignorance and coarse- 
ness, is always bellowing out things which it is disagree- 
able to some one, or to several, to hear. Which was it, 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 169 

I wonder, Boor or Snarling, who once reached the dig- 
nity of the mitre ; and who, at prayers in his house, ut- 
tered this supplication on behalf of a lady visitor who 

was kneeling beside him : ^' Bless our friend, Mrs. : 

give her a little more common sense ; and teach her to 
dress a little less like a tragedy queen than she does at 
present ? " 

But who shall reckon up the countless circumstances 
which lie like a depressing burden on the energies of 
men, and make them work at that disadvantage w^hich we 
have thought of under the figure of carrying weight in 
life'? There are men who carry weight in a damp, marshy- 
neighborhood, w^ho, amid bracing mountain air, might 
have done things which now they will never do. There 
are men who carry weight in an uncomfortable house : 
in smoky chimneys : in a study Avith a dismal look-out ; 
in distance from a railway-station : in ten miles between 
them and a bookseller's shop. Give another hundred a 
year of income, and the poor, struggling parson w^ho 
preaches dull sermons will astonish you by the talent 
he will exhibit when his mind is freed from the dismal 
depressing influence of ceaseless scheming to keep the 
wolf from the door. Let the poor little sick child grow 
strong and well, and with how much better heart will its 
father face the work of life ! Let the clergyman wdio 
preached in a spiritless enough w^ay, to a handful of 
uneducated rustics, be placed in a charge w^here w^eekly 
he has to address a large cultivated conorreo^ation ; and 
with the new stimulus, latent powers may manifest them- 
selves which no one fancied he possessed, and he may 
prove quite an eloquent and attractive preacher. A 
dull, quiet man, whom you esteemed as a blockhead, 
may suddenly be valued very differently when circum- 



170 CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO 

stances unexpectedly call out the solid qualities he pos* 
Besses, unsuspected before. A man, devoid of brilliancy, 
may on occasion show that he possesses great good sense ; 
or that he has the power of sticking to his task, in spite 
of discouragement. Let a man be placed where dogged 
perseverance will stand him in stead, and you may see 
what he can do when he has but a chance. The especial 
weiojht which has held some men back — the thins: which 
kept them from doing great things and attaining great 
fame — has been just this : that they were not able to 
say or to write what they have thought and felt. And 
indeed a great poet is nothing more than the one man 
in a miUion who has the gift to express that w^hich has 
been in the mind and heart of multitudes. If even the 
most commonplace of human beings could write all the 
poetry he has felt, he would produce something that 
would go straight to the hearts of many. 

It is touching to witness the indications and vestiges 
of sweet and admirable things which have been subjected 
to a weight which has entirely crushed them down: things 
which would have come out into beauty and excellence 
if they had been allowed a chance. You may witness 
one of the saddest of all the losses of nature in various 
old maids. What kind hearts are there running to waste ! 
What pure and gentle affections blossom to be blighted ! 
I dare say you have heard a young lady of more than 
forty sing ; and you have seen her eyes fill with tears at 
the pathos of a very commonplace verse. Have you not 
thought that there was the indication of a tender heart 
which might have made some good man happy ; and, in 
doing so, made herself happy too ? But it w^as not to 
be. Still, it is sad to think that sometimes upon cats 

' doo-s there should be wasted the affection of a kindly 



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE. 171 

human being ! And you know, too, how often the fairesfc 
promise of human excellence is never suffered to come to 
fruit. You must look upon gravestones to find the names 
of those who promised to be the best and noblest speci- 
mens of the race. They died in early youth ; perhapvS 
in early childhood. Their pleasant faces, their singu- 
lar words and ways, remain, not often talked of, in the 
memories of subdued parents, or of brothers and sisters 
now grown old, but never forgetting how that one of 
the family that was as the flower of the flock was the 
first to fade. It has been a proverbial saying, you know, 
even from heathen ages, that those whom the gods love 
die young. It is but an inferior order of human beings 
that makes the living succession to carry on the human 
race. 



CHAPTER VIL 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 




N the last days of October, just when wintei 
is fairly settling down upon smoky and noisy 
Glasgow ; when every leaf has gone (for 
the leaves go early) from the trees near it, 
and when fogs shorten the day at its beginning and its 
end ; there begins to appear, intermingled with the crowd 
in the Trongate, and staring in at the shop-windows of 
Buchanan-street with a curiosity fresh from the country, 
a host of lads, varying in age from decided boyhood to 
decided manhood, conspicuous by the scarlet mantle they 
wear. Those glaring robes have not been seen before 
since May-day — for the vacation at Glasgow College 
lasts from the first of May to about the twenty-sixth 
of October : — and now their appearance announces to 
(he citizens that winter has decidedly set in ; the sea- 
son, in Glasgow, of ceaseless rain, fog, and smoke ; of 
eager business, splendid hospitahty, and laborious study. 
Through the close stifling wynds or alleys of the High- 
street the word runs, that " The Colley dougs have come 
back again ; " and by the time that November is a few 
days old, the college courts, which through the summer 
months lay still and deserted, are thronged with a motley 
crowd of many hundreds of young men, students of arts, 
theology, medicine, and law. 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 173 

The stranger in Glasgow who has paid a visit to the 
noble cathedral, has probably, in returning from it, 
walked down the High-street, a steep and filthy way 
of tall houses, now abandoned to the poorest classes of 
the community, where dirty women in mutches, each fol- 
lowed by two or three squalid children, hold loud conver- 
sations all day long ; and the alleys leading from which 
pour forth a flood of povert}^, disease, and crime. On 
the left hand of the High-street, where it becomes a 
shade more respectable, a dark, low-browed building, of 
three stories in height, fronts the street for two or 
three hundred yards. TJiat is Glasgow College, or the 
University of Glasgow ; for here, as also at Edinburgh, 
the University consists of a single College. The first 
gate-way at which we arrive opens into a dull-looking 
court, inhabited by the professors, eight or ten of whom 
have houses here. Further down, a low archway, which 
is the main entrance to the building, admits to two or 
three quadrangles, occupied by the various class-rooms. 
There is something impressive in the sudden transition 
from one of the most crowded and noisy streets of the 
city, to the calm and stillness of the College courts. 
The first court we enter is a small one, surrounded by 
buildings of a dark and venerable aspect. An antique 
staircase of massive stone leads to the Faculty Hall, or 
Senate-house ; and a spire of considerable height sur- 
mounts a vaulted archway leading to the second court. 
This court is much larger than the one next the street, 
and with its turrets and winding staircases, narrow win- 
dows and high-pitched roofs, would quite come up to our 
ideas of academic architecture; but unhappily, some years 
fiince one side of this venerable quadrangle was pulled 
down, and a large building in the Grecian style erected 



174 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

in its place, which, like a pert interloper, contrasts most 
disagreeably with the remainder of the old monastic pile. 
Passing out of this court by another vaulted passage, we 
enter an open square, to the right of which is the Uni- 
versity library, and at some little distance an elegant 
Doric temple, which is greatly admired by those who 
prefer Grecian to Gothic architecture. This is tlu 
Ilunterian Museum, and contains a valuable collection 
of subjects in natural history and anatomy, bequeathed 
by the eminent surgeon whose name it bears. Beyond 
this building, the College gardens stretch away to a con- 
siderable distance. The ground is undulating — there 
are many trees, and what was once a pleasant country 
stream flows through the gardens ; but Glasgow fac- 
tories and Glasgow smoke have quite spoiled what must 
once have been a delightful retreat from the dust and 
glare of the city. The trees are now quite blackened, 
the stream (named the Molendinar Burn) became so 
offensive that it was found necessary to arch it over, 
and drifts of stifling and noisome smoke trail slowly 
all day over the College gardens. There are no ever- 
greens nor flowers ; and the students generally prefer to 
take their "constitutional" in the purer air of the western 
outskirts of Glasgow. 

Let us suppose that the young student, brought from 
the country by parent or guardian, has come to town to 
enter upon his university career. The order in which 
the classes are taken is as follows : first year, Latin and 
Greek ; second. Logic and Greek ; third, Moral Philoso- 
phy and Mathematics; fourth, Natural Philosophy. The 
classes must be attended in this order by those students 
who intend taking* their degree, or going into the church ; 
but any person may attend any class upon signing a dec- 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 175 

aration to the effect that he is not studying for the 
church. Practically, the classes are almost invariably 
attended in the order which has been mentioned, which is 
called the College curriculum. For several days before 
the classes open, the professors remain in their houses, 
that students may call upon them to enter their class. 
Our young friend and his governor call upon the profes- 
sor whose class is to be entered. They find him seated 
in his study, a low-roofed chamber of small dimensions, 
but abundantly provided with the comforts which beseem 
a sedentary and studious life. There is the writing-table 
at which to sit ; by the window, the desk at which to 
write or read while standing ; there is the cool seat of 
polished birch, without a trace of cushion ; and the vast 
easy-chair, where horse-hair and morocco have done their 
utmost, to receive the weary man of learning in the day's 
last luxurious hour of leisure. The professor is seated 
at his table, fresh and hearty from his six months' holi- 
day, brown from his shooting-box in the Highlands, or 
his ramble over the Continent, or his pretty villa on the 
beautiful Frith of Clyde. Three or four lads who have 
come to enter the class, fidget uneasily on their chairs, 
with awe-struck faces. The professor may perhaps, for 
his own guidance, make some inquiry as to the previous 
acquirements of the student, but there is no preliminary 
test applied to ascertain the student's fitness for entering 
college. The ceremony of entering the class is completed 
by paying the professor his fee, which in almost every 
class is three guineas. In return, the professor gives the 
studtnt a ticket of admission to the class-room ; on which, 
at the end of the session, he writes a certificate of the 
Btudent's having attended his class. The more civilized 
students take care to have the exact amount of the fee 



176 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

prepared beforehand, whicli they place on the professor's 
table, and which he receives without remark, thus soften- 
ing the mercantile transaction as much as may be. Oth- 
ers hand their money to the professor, and demand the 
change in regular shop fashion. It is amusing to re- 
mark the demeanor of the different professors in taking 
their three guineas. Some are digniiiedly unconscious 
of the sum received, and although a sharp glance may 
ascertain that the amount is there, no remark is made. 
Others take up the money, count it over, and pocket it 
with a bow, saying, " Thank you, Sir ; much obliged to 
you, Sir." 

And what a strange mixed company the thirteen or 
fourteen hundred students of Glasgow College make up ! 
Boys of eleven or twelve years old (Thomas Campbell 
entered at the latter age) ; men with gray hair, up to the 
age of fifty or sixty ; great stout fellows from the plough ; 
men in considerable number from the north of Ireland ; 
lads from counting-houses in town, who wish to improve 
their minds by a session at the logic class ; English dis- 
senters, long excluded from the Universities of England, 
who have come down to the enlightened country where a 
Turk or a Buddhist may graduate if he w^ill ; young men 
with high scholarship from the best public schools ; and 
others not knowing a letter of Greek and hardly a word 
of Latin. Mr. Lockhart (formerly editor of the Quar- 
terly Review)^ says with truth that " the greater part of 
the students attending the Scotch colleges, consists of per- 
sons w^hose situation in life, had they been born in Eng- 
land, must have left them no chance of being able to 
share the advantages of an academical education." "Any 
young man who can afford to wear a decent coat, and 
live in a garret upon porridge or herrings, may, if he 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 177 

pleases, come to Edinburgh, and pass through his aca 
demical career just as creditably as is required or ex- 
pected." And, in consequence of all this, '• the Univer- 
sities of Scotland educate, in proportion to the size and 
wealth of the two countries, twenty times a larger num- 
ber than those of England educate." -^ 

Let us imagine our student now fairly entered upon 
liis work. In company with three or four hundred of the 
newest and brightest gowns, he has, no doubt, attended 
the ceremony of opening the session in the Common 
Hall, and listened to many good advices from the Princi- 
pal, who used regularly to beg his youthful auditors to 
remember they were "no longer schoolboys ; " a request 
invariably received with loud applause. The bustle of 
the first start over, the student has fallen into the regular 
order of his work. The Latin and Greek classes he 
finds are very much like classes at school, the main dif- 
ference being that they are attended by larger numbers, 
and accordingly that each student is but rarely called on 
for examination. When a student is " called," he con- 
strues five or six lines ; the professor then puts a num- 
ber of questions upon what has been read. Should he 
fail to answer any question, the professor asks if any one 
in the same bench can answer it. If no one can, he next 
names the numbers of the various benches one after 
another, and the students in each have then an opportu- 
nity of making their knowledge and application apparent 
to their fellows-students ; by whom, at the end of the ses- 
sion, the class prizes are voted. Lockhart says with jus- 
tice of the Scotch professors of Latin and Greek, that 

" The nature of the duties they perform of course reduces them to 
something quite diflferent from what we (in England) should under- 

1 Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk. Vol. i. pp. 187, 192, 198. 
12 



178 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

stand by the name they bear. They are not employed in assisting 
young men to study, with greater facility or advantage, the poets, thQ 
liistorians, or the philosophers of antiquity; nay, it can scarcely be 
said, in any proper meaning of the term, that they are employed 
in teaching the principles of language. They are schoolmasters in 
the strictest sense of the word ; for their time is spent in laying the 
very lowest part of the foundation on which a superstructure of learn- 
ing must be reared. A profound and accomplished scholar may at 
times be found discharging these duties; but most assuredly there is 
no need either of depth or elegance to enable him to discharge them aa 
well as the occasion requires." 

The reiterated complaints of Professor Blackie, of the 
Greek Chair at Edinburgh, prove what indeed needs no 
proof to any one acquainted with the Universities of 
Scotland, that no improvement has taken place in the 
years since Lockhart thus wrote. Greek professors are 
still expected to begin with the alphabet. The truth is, 
that while things remain as at present, a good, energetic 
teacher from a public school would make a better Latin 
or Greek professor than a man of fine scholarship. Fancy 
Mr. Blackie patiently listening to a dunce blundering 
through 6 rj TO I Or think of assigning the task of 
grounding a ploughman in the inflections of rvTrrw, to 
the gentle and refined Mr. Lushington of Glasgow ! We 
do not think that Mr. Tennyson was sketching the char- 
acteristics of the right man for such work when he wrote 
of Lushincrton thus : — 



o 



And thou art worthy; full of power; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

It is the old story of " cutting blocks with a razor ; " 
it is like setting the winner of the Derby to pull a dray. 
And so long as the work remains what it is, we believe 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 179 

it would be better and more cheerfully done bj ma« 
chinerj a good deal more rough and ready. 

The students attending the Latin class may number 
about 250 ; but the class is taught in two separate di- 
visions. The Greek class (which meets in three divis- 
ions) has about 300 students ; when Sir Daniel Sandford 
was professor, it sometimes numbered 500. The Logic 
class has from 150 to 180 students, the Moral Philos- 
ophy, 100 to 120; the Natural Philosophy, 70 to 90. 

It is a curious thing to witness the beginning of a 
working day at Glasgow College. We must, to do so, 
rise at six a. m. in a dark winter morning ; for if we live 
in the better part of the town, we have a walk of half- 
an-hour to get over before the classes meet. Through 
darkness and sleet we make our w^ay to the College, 
which we reach, say at twenty minutes past seven A. M. 
A crowd of students, old and young, wrapped in the red 
mantles, shivering and sleepy, is pouring in at the low 
archw'ay already mentioned. The lights shining through 
the little windows point out the class-rooms which are 
now to be occupied. At the door of each stands an 
unshaven servant, in whose vicinity a fragrance as of 
whisky pervades the air. The servants in former days 
were always shabby and generally dirty ; not unfre- 
quently drunk. They wear no livery of any kind. By 
long intercourse with many generations of students, they 
have acquired the power of receiving and returning any 
amount of " chaff." At length a miserable tinkling is 
heard from the steeple ; the students pour into the class- 
rooms, and arrange themselves in benches, like the pews 
f)f a church. A low pulpit is occupied by the professor. 
The business of the day is commenced by a short prayer. 
After prayer, a student, placed in a subsidiary pulpit, 



180 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

calls over the names of the students, who severally sig- 
nify their presence by saying Adsiim, The work of the 
class then goes on till the hour is finished. An hour is 
the invariable period for which the class remains. The 
Latin and Greek classes meet at the early hour we have 
mentioned ; and, strange to say, it is at this unseasonable 
time that the eloquent Professor of Moral Philosophy 
lectures. It is a remarkable proof <}£ his power, that he 
is able to touch and excite such a wretchedly cold and 
sleepy auditory. The applause which generally attends 
his lectures, makes the houses nearest his class-room the 
least desirable in the professor's court. At half-past 
eight many of the classes are in operation — as the 
Latin, Greek, Logic, Natural Philosophy, and Theology. 
Though it is always an effort to be at College at hours 
so early, still the arrangement soon comes to be liked 
by both professors and students. By half-past nine the 
hardest of the day's work is over ; and thus these early 
morning hours, which otherwise would probably be turned 
to little account, save the more valuable hours of the 
morning and afternoon. 

Each of the Philosophy Classes meets two hours a 
day. The morning hour is occupied by a lecture ; and 
an hour later in the day is given to the examination of 
the students on the lectures they have heard, and to 
hearing them read essays on the subjects under con- 
sideration. Thus Scotch students have the' pen in their 
hand from the very commencement of their course ; and 
the same system is kept up to the close of even the long 
course of eight years for the church. A very large pro- 
portion of young men thus acquire no inconsiderable 
command of that noble instrument, the Enoflish lanoruao^e; 
which is very seldom written with ease and accuracy, 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 181 

except as the result of long-continued practice. The 
lectures read are verbatim the same, session after session, 
so that a Scotch Professor of Philosophy, with his two 
hours a day of work, and his six months' holiday in the 
pleasantest part of the year, has (once his course of lec- 
tures is w^ritten) a very comfortable place of it. 

The present Professor of Latin (or Humanity, as it 
is called) is Mr. Ramsay, a graduate of Cambridge, and 
the author of the work on " Roman Antiquities " in the 
Encyclopcedia Metropolitana, Mr. Lushington is the 
Professor of Greek, having succeeded Sir Daniel Sand- 
ford in 1838. He was the first Grecian of his time at 
Cambridge. The Chair of Logic has been filled by Mr. 
Buchanan for many years. There is no more admira- 
ble teacher in the University. Many a young man has 
dated his intellectual birth to the period of his attendance 
on the Logic class at Glasgow. Mr. Buchanan is a 
clergyman of the Scotch church, but resigned his parish 
on his appointment to the chair. Dr. Fleming is the 
Professor of Moral Philosophy : he, too, was a parish 
clergyman before his appointment. He is a man of vast 
information in every department of metaphysical phi- 
losophy, and is, perhaps, not surpassed in a somewhat 
tawdry eloquence by any man in Scotland. He is a 
heavy-looking man when in repose, but when animated, 
brightens up w^onderfully. The intensity w^ith wdiich he 
himself feels, gives him a great power in moving the 
fa3lino:s of his hearers. Mr. Thomson, a few years since 
second Wrangler and first Smith's Prizeman, is the Pro- 
fessor of Natural Philosophy. He took a leading part 
in the laying of the Atlantic Telegraph Cable. 

At the end of three years, students may take the de- 
gree of Bachelor of Arts, on passing an examination in 



182 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

Classics, Logic, and Moral Philosophy. At the end of 
four years, on passing a further examination in Mathe- 
matics and Natural Philosophy, they may take their 
Master's degree. Few students comparatively graduate. 
It is not necessary in order to enter the church ; and not 
many young men are willing to undertake no inconsider- 
able amount of study to attain an honor which, in Scot- 
land, brings with it no advantage whatever. And even 
the small fee, of from three to five guineas, which is paid 
at graduation, is a serious consideration to most Scotch 
students. A university education in Scotland, comes far 
down in the social scale ; and while at the universities of 
England the great majority of the young men are the 
sons of gentlemen, in Scotland the vast preponderance 
consists of sons of farmers, tradesmen, and working men ; 
and of poor lads, without relations or friends, struggling 
on amid unheard-of difficulties and privations. No one 
can look round the benches of any class-room in Scotland, 
without being struck by the harsh features and coarse at- 
tire of most of the young men ; no one can converse with 
nine out of ten of them, without being struck by their 
vulgar accent and manner. A writer in the Quarterly 
Review perhaps speaks somewhat severely when he alludes 
to " those tag-rag and bob-tail concerns, the Scotch Uni- 
versities : " but there is truth in Lockhart's remark, that — 

A person whose eyes had been accustomed only to such places as the 
schools of Oxford, would certainly be very much struck \\\\h.t\\Q prima 
facie, mean condition of the majority of the students assembled at the 
prselections of these Edinburgh [and Glasgow] professors. Here and 
there one sees some small scattered remnant of the great flock of dan- 
dies, tr^'ing to keep each other in countenance, in a corner of the class- 
room; but these only heighten, by the contrast of their presence, the 
general effect of the slovenly and dirty mass which on every side sur- 
rounds them with its contaminating atmosphere. i 

1 Peitr's Utters. Vol. i. p. 187. 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 183 

Yet ability is given by nature with little regard to social 
position : many of those rough specimens of humanity 
possess no ordinary talent ; many will take on polish 
wonderfully, before they pass from college to life : and 
there is really a deep pathos in the story of toil, priva- 
tion, and resolution, which is the story of many a Glasgow 
student's college days. 

There are, of course, young men of good families at 
Glasgow College. There are students who wear all- 
round collars of extreme stiffness, who walk down to 
their classes from the aristocratic districts of Blythswood- 
square and Woodside-terrace ; who are in much request 
at evening parties, and who strut in the afternoon in the 
Sauchyhall-road, the fashionable promenade of Glasgow, 
But most of the students live in \ery plain lodgings, in 
various parts of the town, and know no more of Glasgow 
society than if they were living in the Sandwich Islands. 
There are some streets near the Collef^e, consistinor of 
tall houses divided into Jiats, in which great numbers of 
students dwell. The life of almost all is one of struo^orle 
and self-denial. It touches us, and that deeply, to think 
of poor lads of eighteen or nineteen, toiling on with their 
studies, with many a thought as to how they are to get 
food and raiment ; with all those cares upon their heads 
which are heavy enough,^ God knows, when they press 
upon maturer years, yet supported by the hope that at 
some time in the distant future they may get into the 
church at last, or even into a parish school. What a 
princely dwelling must a country manse seem to such ; 
what an inexhaustible revenue a living of three or four 
hundred a year ! AYe have been told that many students 
have managed to live upon fifteen or twenty pounds a 
year. After writing this, we were almost startled on re- 



184 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

curring to it ; but Mr. Lockhart, a Glasgow student him- 
self, and the son of a Glasgow minister, confirms us : "I 
am assured," he sajs, " that the great majority of students 
here have seldom more than thirty or forty pounds per 
annum, and that very many most respectable students con^ 
trive to do with little more than half so much money '^ ^ 
Our readers may perhaps remember the touching fact re- 
corded in the life of Dr. Adam, the very eminent Rector 
of the High School of Edinburgh, — that when at Col 
lege, his dinner consisted of a penny roll ; and that to save 
the expense of a fire, he was accustomed to eat it as he 
climbed some long and lonely stair in the Old Town, 
where there are houses of fourteen stories in height.^ 
We have heard of students from Ireland who brought 
with them a bag of scones^ or cakes of oatmeal, on which 
alone they lived in some poor garret. And many a poor 
family is pinching itself at home, to keep the clever son 
at College. A clergyman of the Church of Scotland 
w^ho published a work on Clerical Economics dedicated it 
" To a father who, on a hundred pounds a year, brought 
up six sons to learned professions, and who has often sent 
his last shilling to each of them in their turn, when they 
w^ere at College." The motto which Sydney Smith pro- 
posed for the Edinburgh Review, " Tenui musam medita- 
mur avena^^ — " We cultivate literature on a little oat- 
meal," might be the motto of many a Glasgow student. 
A few years since, a poor fellow, whose education was so 
delicdent that he could not earn anything by teaching 
others, supported himself by becoming a night-watchman, 
and studied his Greek Testament by the light of the 

1 PeUr's Letters. VoL i. p. 193. 

2 "Life of Dr. Adam," in Chambers' Scottish Biographical Diction^ 
ary. 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 185 

street lamps. The Census of 1851 in Glasgow was in a 
great degree taken up by students, thankful thus to make 
a few shillings. We cannot refrain from making a quo- 
tation which tells a story which, to our personal knowledge 
is true in scores of cases, — aye, in hund^;eds : — 

My father was a poor man — a common working wright, in a littla 
village not far from Glasgow. My mother and he pinched themselves 
blue to give me my education. I went to college when I was abt lit 
fifteen years old, and they sent me in cheese and vegetables, even oat- 
meal to make my porridge, every week by the carrier. I did not taste 
butcher's meat three times, I believe, in the first three years I was a 
student. But then I began to do something for myself. I got a little 
private teaching, and by degrees ceased to be a burden on the old peo- 
ple. Step by step I wrought on, till I became tutor in a gentleman's 
family. Then I was licensed, and I remained a preacher for twenty 
years, — sometimes living in a family, sometimes teaching from house 
to house, and latterly I had a school of my own in Glasgow. I was 
forty years old and upwards ere I got the kirk, Mr. Wald ; and my 
dear parents never lived to see me in it.^ 

Not less true and not less touching is another passage 
from the same masterly pen : — 

If I was poor, I had no objections to living poorl3^ After attending 
classes and hospitals from daybreak to sunset, I contented myself with 
a dinner and supper in one, of bread and milk, — or perhaps a mess of 
potatoes, with salt for their only sauce. A deal table, a half-broken 
chair, and a straw pallet, were all the furniture J had about me; and 
ver}' rarely did I indulge myself with a fire. But I could wrap a 
blanket over my legs, trim my lamp, and plunge into the world of 
books, and forget everything.2 

There is not a whit of exaggeration in Sir Walter 
Scott's description of the early struggles of Dominie 
Sampson. And we confess we cannot read without emo- 
tion the description in Matthew Wald, of the poor tutor 
going for his evening's work with his pupils, to the house 

1 History of Matthew Wald, pp. 148-9. 

2 Matthew Wald, 203-5.' 



186 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

of some wealthy burgess, and being saluted in his lobby 
" with the amiable fragrance of soup, roast meat, rum- 
punch, and the like dainties," himself just from his spare 
mess of potatoes and salt. Ah, there is much pathos 
about the daily, life of the poor students of Glasgow ! 
Let no one indulge in the heartless sneer at the poor 
fellow's threadbare coat, his whity-brown paper, his linen 
so coarse that it looks like sail-cloth, his patched boots 
and his worn anxious face. God bless him, and helj 
him, say we ! Speak kindly to him, dandified young 
student ; deal gently with him, grave professor ; his heart 
is very likely so full already that it will almost break 
with one drop more. He is the hope and pride, and the 
anxious care, too, of some poor family far away, whose 
members are grinding themselves down to life's last 
necessaries to give him advantages which (sad that in 
the nature of things it must be) will, when obtained, 
draw a line of separation between him and themselves. 
They will make him, perhaps, the scholar and the gentle- 
man, but all this will only serve to introduce him into a 
world of which they know nothing. They may be proud 
of him still, when he gets a kirk at last ; but he will per- 
haps marry a lady, and then they will hardly ever see 
him, and it will be with a vague, blank feeling of disap- 
pointment when they do. Arid the old parents — it may 
be, left alone in the last days of life, with the single re- 
turn for years of struggle, that they can say that the son 
whom they hardly ever see, is a parish minister a hun- 
dred miles off — may think that, after all, it might 
have been better had he saved his home-bred virtues in 
his parents' lowly lot, and by his daily presence smoothed 
his parents' passage to their lowly grave. 

It is sad to think that not unfrequently all this effort 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 187 

and self-denial on the part of the family at home, and the 
student at college, are found in the case of poor fellows 
who are so completely deficient in ability, that it is impos- 
sible that they should ever get on in life. The Divinity 
Hall of each University is never without a sprinkling of 
lads who would have made excellent ploughmen, or 
schoolmasters, or me(*hanics, but whose whole future life 
must be blasted by the unfortunate fact that nothing 
would serve themselves or their relations but that they 
must try to get into the church. We have known of 
poor deformed creatures who toiled and starved on year 
after year, hoping, with a despairing earnestness that in 
some cases settled down into monomania, that they might 
yet pass the Presbytery, and be presented to a living. It 
is a very painful duty which the Presbyteries have some- 
times to perform, in rejecting applicants for orders who 
are manifestly unfit, yet whose rejection crushes the 
cherished hopes and foils the utmost endeavors of a poor 
family for many years. We believe that such a case has 
been as that such a person has come up for examination 
five or six successive times at intervals of a year or two, 
before abandoning the hope of passing. We have heard 
of a case in which a grown-up man, on being told by the 
Moderator or President of the Presbytery that he " was 
recommended still further to prosecute his studies," the 
mild formula by which rejection is conveyed, dropped 
senseless on the floor of the court, and lay for long a3 
dead. We know of a case in which a person, in like 
manner rejected, had to be conveyed to a place of re- 
straint, a wild raving maniac. The dogged energy and 
determination of the Scottish character can bear a man 
through almost anything so long as hope remains ; but 
when the'^last hope breaks down, we believe that the firm 



188 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

Scottish heart may be roused to a frenzy of despair aa 
keen as ever stirred in the hot blood of the tropics. 

Those students who are poor and who possess fair 
scholarship, very generally maintain themselves by pri- 
vate teaching. They instruct lads in the junior classes, 
hastening from house to house in the evenings, and usu- 
ally remaining one hour with each pupil. The fee for 
such attendance is a guinea a month. We find it men- 
tioned in the Life of James Halley^ one of the most dis- 
tinguished of Glasgow students in recent years, that dur 
ing the period in which he made his reputation, " his 
principal source of maintenance was the product of his 
own exertion as a private tutor. A very considerable 
portion of his time — always four, and sometime five, 
hours a day — was taken up in this way. This very 
materially enhances his merit in maintaining so high a 
position in all the classes." ^ Campbell the poet, writing 
of a period when he was just eighteen years old, records 
that " after my return from Mull, I supported myself 
during the winter by private tuition." ^ We have known 
of students who made a respectable figure in their classes, 
who were engaged in teaching for six, eight, or ten hours a 
day. There are a great many exhibitions, or Bursaries, as 
they are called, which are intended to aid deserving stu- 
dents. These vary in amount from three or four pounds 
a year up to forty. But, unhappily, hardly any of thera 
are open to competition, and they are very frequently 
given to those students w^ho least need them and least 
deserve them. 

On the whole, looking at the way in which Glasgow 

1 Memoir of James Halley, B.A., Student of Theology^ p. 17, Edin- 
burgh. 1842. 

2 Life, prefixed to Poems. Edition of 1851; p. 28. 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 18S 

students generally 'do live, and the way in which they 
may live, we must admit that it was not without reason 
that the old Glasgow merchant in Cyril Thornton boast- 
ed of the accessibility of a Scotch University educa 
tion : — 

So ye've come down here to be a colleaginer. It's a lang gait to 
gang for learning. But after a', I am no sure tliat you could ha'e 
done better. Our colleges here are no bund down like yours in the 
south, by a wheen auld and fizzionless rules, and we dinna say to ilka 
student, either bring three hundred pounds in your pouch, or gang 
about your business. We dinna lock the door o' learning, as they do 
at Oxford and Cambridge, and shut out a' that canna bring a gouden 
key in their hand, but keep it on the sneck, that onybody that likes 
may open it.i 

At the end of the four years' course in Arts, students 
for the church beo^in their theolosrical studies, which ex- 
tend over four years more. On " entering the Divinity 
Hall,'' as it is termed, the student lays aside the red 
gown, and for the remainder of his college course wears 
no distinojuishino^ dress. Durinfy each of these four ses- 
sions he attends the lectures of the Professor of The- 
ology, and the lectures of the Professors of Hebrew and 
Church History for two sessions each. The Professor of 
Theology is necessarily a clergyman, and is, ex officio, a 
member of the Presbytery of Glasgow. Laymen are eli^ 
gible for the Chairs of Hebrew and Church History ; but 
in practice they are always filled by clergymen. Dr. Hill 
is the Professor of Theology ; Mr. Weir, a young clergy- 
man, has lately succeeded to the Chair of Hebrew ; and 
that of Church History is filled by Dr. Jackson, an able 
man, whose besetting sin is a tendency to become most 
abstrusely metaphyvsical in his lectures. The Hebrew 
class is taught very much as the Latin and Greek classes 
1 Youth and Manhood of Cyril Thornton. Vol. i. p. 60. 



190 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

are ; the Theology and Church History, like the Phi- 
losophy classes. The number of students attending the 
Divinity Hall is, we believe, above a hundred. The va- 
cancies in the Church caused by death average about 
thirty-five annually, and Glasgow College alone could 
supply nearly that number of candidates for orders. 
The University of Edinburgh turns out yearly almost 
as many ; the Universities of St. Andrew's and Aberdeen 
as many more. Our readers may suppose that there is a 
pretty sharp competition for every living that becomes va- 
cant, while the supply is thus nearly threefold in excess 
of the demand. 

After the student for the Church has completed his col- 
lege course, he applies for orders to the Presbytery with- 
in whose bounds he resides. He is " taken on trials " by 
that Church-court. He is examined in all the branches 
he has studied at college, and is required to compose and 
read to the Presbytery five or six discourses. These 
" trials " occupy perhaps six months, at the end of which 
time he is licensed to preach. He is not permitted to 
administer the sacraments until he has been ordained ; 
and in practice no one is ever ordained till he has been 
appointed to a church as minister. It will thus be seen 
that nearly nine years pass from the time a student en- 
ters college, down to the period at which he is licensed 
to preach. If licensed at the age of twenty-two, as is 
not unfrequently the case, having left off his classical 
studies six or seven years before, it may be left to our 
readers to imagine how much claim he can have to be 
regarded as a scholar, in the English sense. We think 
that reform in the Scotch University system is impera 
lively needed, and in no respect more imperatively than 
in the abbreviation of the enormous course for the 



COLLEGE LIFE IN GLASGOW. 191 

Church. To finish that course in anything like rea- 
sonable time, the student must enter college at an ab- 
surdly early age. 

The competition for academic honors is as keen at 
jrlasgow as it can be anywhere. The prizes for general 
eminence in each class are voted by the students in it, at 
the end of the session. The prizes are almost alwaya 
givan with perfect fairness ; so the system is better in 
practice than it looks in theory. When ten or twelve 
prizes are given in a class, it may be supposed that the 
degrees of merit are less strongly marked among the low- 
est on the list of prizemen, and private feeling may 
weigh in the adjudication of the inferior prizes. But 
there is hardly an instance on record of the first, second, 
or third prize going otherwise than as the professor 
would have awarded it. The first prize in each class is 
of course a matter of special ambition ; it has often been 
contested with an eagerness prejudicial to health and even 
life. We have known of Glasgow students who for five 
months of the session, have allowed themselves not more 
than three or four hours of sleep nightly, the entire wak- 
ing day being devoted to study. In such cases the fe- 
verish anxiety of the competition has sometimes kept up 
the student in working trim to the end of the session, 
w^hile at its close, the stimulus removed, he has utterly 
broken down. The higher Latin and Greek prizes are 
keenly contested, as success in obtaining any of them 
marks out a student for appointment to one of the SneU 
JSxhibitions. Under the SneU endowment, the Univer- 
sity of Glasgow sends ten students to Balliol College, 
Oxford, giving to four of them a stipend of £135 a year 
each, and to the remaining six £120 a year each. These 
exhibitions are tenable for ten years. And for the credi* 



192 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

of the University, the professors generally send to Ox- 
ford tlie best classical students who are willing to go. 
Classical learning, however, is undervalued in Scotland, 
and the principal honors of the University go for pro- 
ficiency in Mental Philosophy, in its various departments. 
For students who purpose completing their course in 
Scotland, the testing classes are those of Logic and Moral 
Philosophy — Moral Philosophy implying at Glasgow a 
complete course of Metaphysics. Whoever obtains the 
first prize in that class, is pretty safe to carry the honors 
of the Divinity classes. The work of these classes de- 
mands the same kind of ability ; and, with the exception 
of importations from other universities, w^hich are rarely 
of first-class students, the competition in these classes will 
be with the same men. 

Among the most coveted distinctions of the University, 
are the prizes for the " University Essays." These prizes 
are eight or nine in number annually, and the competi- 
tion for them is extensive. Two gold medals, given on 
alternate years, are open to the competition of all stu- 
dents attending any class in the University ; one of these 
is given for an essay in history, the other for an essay in 
political economy. Then there are one or two prizes 
open to the competition of all students of theology ; two 
or three to all students of philosophy ; one to all students 
of medicine. The following, from the published prize 
list, will give an idea of the kind of subjects prescribed. 

In 1842, the Gartmore gold medal was given for the 
best essay on " The Expediency or Inexpediency of 
Capital Punishments." In 1844, for the best essay on 
" Secondary Punishments." In 1848, for the best essay 
on ^' Under what Circumstances, and in what Mode, 
should a Constitutional State encourage Emigration ? " 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 193 

In 1843, the Ewing gold medal was given for the best 
account of " The Circumstances which led to the Peace 
of Westphalia in 1648, with the Results of that Treaty." 
In 1845, the subject was, " An Account of the First Par- 
tition of Poland in 1772." In 1847, "An Account of 
the Establishment and Progress of the British Empire in 
India, to the termination of the Government of Warren 
Hastings." Among the subjects to be written on in dif- 
ferent years by students of Philosophy, we find " An 
Analysis of the Faculty of Judging ; " " Poetic Diction, 
its Use and Abuse by the Orators ; " " The Nature and 
Influence of Motives in Moral Action ; " " The Historical 
Episode and its Conditions, Critically Considered, Illus- 
trated by Examples ; " "A Classification and Analysis 
of the Passions." Among the subjects for students of 
Theology, we have, " The Analogy of the Mosaic and 
Christian Dispensations ; " " The Extent of the Atone- 
ment of Christ ; " " Baptismal Regeneration ; " " Apos- 
tolical Succession ; " " Auricular Confession." And in 
Physics, " The Principles and Practicability of Atmos- 
pheric Railways ; " " The Form and Construction of 
Arches ; " " The Methods of Supplying Large Towns 
with Water." 

These essays are very laboriously written. They are 
often complete works on the subjects proposed, extending 
to some hundreds of pages, and the result of original re- 
search and protracted thought. We have reason to know 
that the prize essays written by one very successful stu- 
dent in one year extended to nearly two thousand pages. 
There are generally two or three of the University essay 
prizes open to the competition of each student each year ; 
and besides the prizes for general eminence voted by the 
students, there is usually, in each class, a prize for an 

13 



194 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

essay, which is adjudicated by the professor. A student 
of extraordinary energy may thus compete for five or six 
essay prizes in one session. Sometimes a man who has 
carried all the honors which belong to his own depart- 
ment, makes an excursion into another field, to find a 
fresh subject and new competitors. An amusing instance 
of this is recorded in the Life of Halley : — 

In the summer of 1834 he enrolled as a student in the botanical class. 
This was done chiefly with a view to benefit his health. The garden 
in which the lecture-room was situated lay at a distance of about two 
miles from his place of residence, and the hour of lecture was from 
eight to nine in the morning. This secured for three months a system 
of early and regular exercise. It happened that during that session a 
gentleman, whose name was not given, empowered Dr. (now Sir Wil- 
liam) Hooker to offer a gold medal for the best essa}' on '* The Natural 
History and Uses of the Potato.*' Halley had not paid much attention 
to the study of botany, and the prescribed subject of the essay did not 
at all lie in his wa}', yet he determined to write by way of amusement, 
and, as he said, " to beat the medicals." The result was a treatise 
of 172 closely -written quarto pages. It was pronounced the best; and 
the interloper carried off the medal, fairly won, from the medical stu- 
dents on their own proper field. Whether this achievement had found 
its way into the Farmer's Magazine, we cannot tell, but it had nearly 
procured for him a reputation of which he was not desirous. One day 
a stranger was ushered into his room, announcing himself as an Irish 
agriculturist, who had devoted considerable attention to the failure of 
the potato crop. Having heard that Mr. Halley had been studying 
the same subject, he had waited upon him to hear the result of his 
researches. Mr. Halley received his visitor with due politeness and 
gravity; laid aside his folios, and entered, with all becoming solem- 
nity, irto the comparative merits of late and early planting — of whole 
sets ajd single eyes, and after a long consultation dismissed his visitor, 
Lighly delighted with the interview.^ 

The subjects of the University prize essays are an- 
nounced on the first of May in each year; the essays are 
taken into the Principal's house in December following. 
Each essay bears two mottoes, and is accompanied by a 

1 Halley' s Life, pp. 23, 24. 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 195 

sealed letter bearing the same mottoes, and containing 
the name of the author, with a declaration that the essay 
is of his unaided composition. The successful essay is 
announced at the distribution of prizes in the Common 
Hall on the first of May, and the letter containing the 
author's name is opened in the presence of the assembled 
Comitia. The other letters are destroyed unopened. 
The prize essay is placed in the library, where, however, 
it is accessible only to the professors. A proof how fairly 
the students vote the highest prizes, is furnished by the 
fact that these prizes for essays, adjudicated by the pro- 
fessors in utter ignorance of their authorship, are given 
in nineteen cases out of twenty to students w^ho have 
" taken " (such is the college phrase) the first prize in 
their respective classes by the students' votes. We have 
examined the prize-list for a number of years, and we find 
that the honors awarded by students and professors almos* 
invariably fall to the same men. 

The distribution of prizes on May-day is a gay scene. 
Students and professors alike are in high spirits in the 
anticipation of their holiday time. Tickets of admission 
to the ceremony are in great request. Our readers may 
perhaps remember that the first poetical composition of 
the author of the Pleasures of Hope, was A Description 
of the Distribution of Prizes in the Common Hall of the 
University of Glasgow, on the first of May, 1793. All 
old Glasgow students have many pleasant associations 
with this day of the year. 

The first of May is the day fixed by immemorial usage in the Uni- 
versity for the distribution of the prizes, a day looked forward to with 
" hopes, and fears that kindle hope," by many youthful and ardent 
spirits. The Great Hall of the college on that day certainly presents 
R very pleasing and animated spectacle. The academical distinctions 
are bestowed with much of ceremonial pomp, in the presence of a vast 



196 College life at Glasgow. 

concourse of spectators, and it is not uninteresting to mark the flush 
of bashful triumph on the cheek of the victor; the sparkling of hii 
downcast e3'e as the hall is rent with loud applause, when he advances 
to receive the badge of honor assigned him by the voice of his fellow- 
students. It is altogether a sight to stir the spirit in the youthful 
bosom, and stimulate into healthy action faculties which, but for such 
excitement, might have continued in unbroken slumber.l 

The Common Hall is a plain square apartment, with a 
gallery at each end. It is capable of containing about a 
thousand persons. Along one side runs a raised bench, 
occupied by the professors. The Principal presides at 
the distribution, unless when the Lord Rector is present. 
Long before the appointed hour, which is always ten 
A. M., the body of the hall is thronged with students, 
and the galleries with ladies. The students beguile the 
time by throwing volleys of peas at one another ; after a 
distribution, several bushels are gathered up from the 
floor. There is a prescriptive toleration for peas, but no 
other missile is permitted ; and a strong-minded man who 
introduced eggs, narrowly escaped expulsion. The bald 
heads of some of the servants present tempting marks, 
and are furiously assailed. At length the professors (all 
of whom wear gowns) enter in procession, preceded by 
the hedeUus, bearing a huge mace of silver. A prayer in 
Latin is offered by the Principal. Then the University 
prize essays are announced ; the letters containing the 
Authors' names are opened, and the prizes are delivered 
to the successful students by the Lord Rector or Principal. 
The divinity prizes are given next ; then the medical, 
then the philosophy and classical. The proceedings are 
over about one o'clock ; and ere the sun has set, the last 
red gOAvn, now sadly faded from its November bright- 
ness, has disappeared from the streets of Glasgow. The 

1 Cyril Thornton. Vol. i. pp. 215, 216. 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 197 

students are scattered over the country ; tutors in gentle- 
men's families, teaching parish schools, acting as mis* 
fiionaries or catechists under the clergy of large towns, 
watching sheep, busy at farm-work, and some of the 
more distinguished, by the time a week has passed, 
busy collecting materials for next year's University 
essays. 

The names of the students stand in the class catalogue 
in Latin ; and the professor, in addressing a student, 
uses his Latinized Christian name in the vocative. There 
is no such thing known in Scotland as that entire sink- 
ing of the Christian name w^hich is usual in the public 
schools of England. At one period the professors at 
Glasgow always addressed their students in the Latin 
language. The impression produced on a stranger was 
decidedly that of the ridiculous. Mr. Lockhart tells us 
that when he went to the class-room of Mr. Young, the 
very eminent Greek Professor at Glasgow, forty years 
since, the first thing done was calling over the roll of 
the class, which was done by one of the students : — 

The professor was quite silent during this space, unless where some 
tall, awkward Irishman, or young indigenous blunderer happened to 
make his entree in a manner more noisy than suited the place, on 
which occasion a sharp cutting voice from the chair was sure to thrill 
in their ears some brief but decisive query, or command, or rebuke: — 
'* Quid agas tu^ in isto angulo, pedibus strepitans et garriens / " " Cave 
tu tibi^ Dugalde 3/' Quhirter^ et iuas res agas .' '* " Notetur, Phelimitis 

0^ Shaughnessy, sero ingrediens^ ut solvat duas asses sierlinenses ! '* "/<e- 
rumne admonendus es, Nicolaei Jarvie ? " " Quid hoc reiy Francisco 

Warper f^^ &c. &c. «&c. 

The custom of the Professor addressing the class in 
Latin has now almost entirely disappeared. The last 
vestiges of it linger in the Philosophy class-rooms, in 
such beautifully classical sentences as " Silentium, gen- 



198 COLLEGE LIEE IN GLASGOW. 

tlenien, silentiura ! " " Nigellius M'Lamroch is break* 
\n^ silentiura ! " The fact is, the custom, was found to 
be a very inconvenient one at once to professors and 
students. It is not too much to say that most of the 
latter understood English very much better than Latin, 
and few of the professors had such a command of Latia 
as to be able to express themselves in it correctly wher 
they got angry. It is a tradition in Glasgow College 
that a professor, who died some years since, once com- 
manded a noisy student to be still. The lad replied 
that he had been perfectly so. The professor's indig- 
nation at this misstatement was too much for his Latin- 
ity. He burst out, " Nonne video te jumpantem over 
the taller' 

The University library is a very good one. We be- 
lieve that in Scotland it ranks second only to the Advo- 
cates' library in Edinburgh. It was founded in the 
fifteenth century. We understand that the Senate can 
afford to expend on the purchase of new books about 
£1,000 a year. Of this sum the Treasury pays £700 
annually as compensation for the loss of the Stationers' 
Hall privilege. Each student has likewise to pay seven 
shillings annually to the library, and in return has the 
privilege of having two volumes at a time during the 
session at his own home, and of consulting as many as 
he pleases in the reading-room. " No novels, romances, 
tales, nor plays " are lent to the students. These, how- 
ever, pour into the library in great profusion for the use 
of the wives and daughters of the professors. 

At one time, degrees in Arts were granted after a 
merely formal examination. The examination is now 
a real one, so far as it extends. It may interest some 
of our readers to know its extent. For the ordinary 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 199 

degree of Bachelor of Arts, the subjects of examination 
are as follows : — 

In Latin : Livy, Three Books ; Virgil, ^neid. Three 
Books ; Horace, Odes, Three Books. 

In Greek : The Four Gospels ; Homer, Three Books. 

In Loojic : The Intellectual Powers ; the Ancient or 
Aristotelian Logic ; the Modern or Inductive Logic 

In Moral Philosophy : The Intellectural, Active, and 
Moral Powers ; the Will ; Practical Ethics ; Nat- 
ural Theology. 

To obtain the degree of M. A., the student must fur- 
ther be examined 

In Natural Philosophy : The subjects lectured on in 
the class. 

In Mathematics ; Euclid, first Six Books ; Plane Trig- 
onometry ; Simple and Quadratic Equations. 

For the degrees with honors, the examinations are 
much more severe. 

The examinations for degrees are held on the Thurs- 
days in March and April. With very little exception, 
they are conducted viva voce. The statute requires that 
they should take place in the presence of at least two 
professors, but in practice the candidate for a degree is 
examined in each branch by the professor under whom 
he has studied it, the other professor present not inter 
fering in the examination, nor even attending to it. A 
strong effort has been made of late years to raise the 
standard of attainment required in graduates ; and some- 
times as many as one third of the students who go up for 
examination are plucked. In the good old times no one 
was ever rejected ; to ask for a degree, and to get it, were 
convertible terms. We have already stated that very many 
students take no degree; no advantage is derived in after- 



200 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

life from having taken one. It is not required of men en- 
tering the Cliurch, that tbej should have one. And in 
the case of the ordinary i-un of young men, whose desire 
is to get through their " curriculum " with as little trouble 
as possible, it is hardly to be expected that some toil and 
some anxiety will be endured, with no inducement of 
countervailing advantage. Still (counting both Bachelors 
and Masters), some sixty or seventy students take their 
degree in each year ; and among the graduates, we may 
say, are all students of any eminence who have advanced 
so far in their course as to have it in their power to go 
up. The degree in honors is very seldom sought, even 
by the most distinguished, except under the stimulus of 
an occasional prize. In order to go up for such a degree 
with the least hope of success, a man must spend on his 
preparations an amount of labor which would yield a 
better return if given to class-work or the composition 
of prize essays. College distinction in Scotland, though 
so eagerly sought, does not aid a man in after-life as it 
does in England. Even in the Church it goes for very 
little. It may lead to a good deal being expected of a 
young preacher at his first outset : but it is his popular- 
ity with ordinary congregations that determines his suc- 
cess, unless where patronage is administered with a higher 
hand than it has been of late years in Scotland ; and very 
great dunces indeed are often endowed by nature with 
very loud voices, and are quite competent to practise a 
howling and sudorific oratory, which goes down amaz- 
ingly with the least intelligent of the Scottish peasantry. 
A marked feature of Glasgow college life is what is 
termed the BlacJcstone Examination, The name is de- 
rived from an antique chair of oak, with a seat of black 
marble, which is occupied by the student under examina- 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW- ' 201 

tion. This examination is compulsory. Before entering 
the Logic class, the students are examined on the Black- 
stone in Greek. Before entering the Moral Philosophy, 
in Logic ; and before entering the Natural Philosophy, 
in Moral Philosophy. This examination is a mere form : 
no one is ever turned at it. It is amusing to witness the 
odd mixture of Latin and English in which, on this oc- 
casion, communication is held between the student and 
the professor. The latter is seated in a large chair at 
one side of the table ; on the other side stands the for- 
midable Blackstone. A great crowd of students fills the 
examination-room ; " Carole Dickie," says the professor. 
Carolus, pale and trembling, walks up to the table. " Well, 
Carole," says the professor, " what do you profess ? " An- 
swer: " Doctissime Professor, Evangelium secundum Jo- 
annem profiteor." Carolus then takes his seat on the 
Blackstone, and construes a verse or two. 

A prize is given yearly to the student w^ho passes the 
best examination on the Blackstone, in Latin ; also for 
the best in Greek. This prize is a matter of very keen 
competition, as success in obtaining it, coming at the com- 
mencement of the session, almost insures a student of the 
first prize in the class. A very great number of books is 
often " professed " by competitors for these prizes. There 
are traditions in the college of students who arrived at 
the examination-room with a wheelbarrow, containing 
the works on which they w^ere willing to be examined. 
The examination is viva voce, and lasts for several hours. 
A number of years since, three competitors went in for 
the Greek Blackstone prize: Tait, Smith, and Halley. 
Halley made a most brilliant appearance, and carried off 
the prize. He studied for the Scotch Church, but died 
before obtaining heense. Of his competitors, Smith weni 



202 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

to Cambridge, where he became Senior Wrangler ; Tail 
succeeded Dr. Arnold as head-master of Rugby, and is 
now Bishop of London. It cannot be said that any 
special brilliancy of talent recommended him to that 
eminent place ; but it is generally admitted that he has 
Ulled it with great judgment. 

The character and conduct of the students of Glasgow 
are generally unexceptionable. There may be a black 
sheep now and then, but such cases are very rare. In- 
deed, no one without considerable moral stamina would 
ever think of living the life of nine tenths of the Glas- 
gow students. And " their lot circumscribes " the errors 
and follies of which they could by possibility be guilty. 
They have not the money to indulge the tastes, whether 
good or bad, of most English University men. Wine- 
parties, riding-horses, escapades to London, coursing and 
hunting, even rowing matches, are beyond the tether of a 
man to whom every penny is a serious consideration ; 
and who cannot but think of his poor sisters wearing out 
their eyes at needlework, and his old father denying him- 
self the long-prized solace of a little tobacco, to keep the 
brother and the son at college. He would be a black- 
hearted villain who could be vicious or even extravagantj 
when either extravagance or vice would be sure to frus- 
trate their hopes and break their hearts. The grosser 
vices are, we believe, unknown. An occasional gaude- 
amus, at which whisky-toddy is the chief luxury ; a visit 
to the theatre, made with fear and trembling ; a row with 
the police once in eight or ten years ; constitute the ut- 
most dissipation of the mass of Glasgow students. Mr. 
Lockhart's description of the morale at the University of 
St. Andrew's holds true of Glasgow as well : 
I lived a life almost solitary, and in general certainly very siinpl« 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 203 

and innocent. The lads there were mostly poor, and had few means 
of signalizing themselves by any folly. Our greatest diversion in the 
way of sport was a game at golf; and we had little notion of any de- 
bauch beyond a pan of toasted cheese, and a bottle or two of the Col- 
lege ale, now and then on a Saturday night. i 

The service of the Scotch Church used to be performed 
on Sundays during the session in the Common Hall, but 
hardly any one went to it, and a few years since the ar- 
rangement was allowed to drop. The students are now 
permitted to dispose of themselves on Sunday as they 
please. 

We have mentioned that a number of professors have 
houses in the College. One court is filled entirely with 
these houses, and a few others are jammed in, in unex- 
pected corners of the class-room courts. They are all 
quaint, old-fashioned dwellings, with a strong smack of 
academic repose about them. The apartments are small, 
and the ceilings very low. The very filthiest lane in 
Glasgow runs parallel to one side of the quadrangle, at 
a distance of some twenty yards. During the railway 
mania, a company obtained an act to remove the College 
buildings to a pretty situation in the western outskirts of 
the town, converting the present College and gardens 
into a terminus. Although the New College was to have 
been a magnificent piece of Gothic architecture, the gen- 
eral feelino; was ao^ainst the abandonment and desecra- 
tion of the old walls. But the resident professors and 
their wives and daughters, long poisoned by the vile 
odors of the " Havannah Vennel," were delighted at the 
idea of a transference to the pleasant slopes of Kelvia 
Grove. The railway company, however, went to ruiui 
and the New College scheme fell to the ground. 
1 Matthew Wald, p. 57. 



204 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

Glasgow has by far the best endowed Universitj in 
Scotland. The professors form a close corporation, and 
keep their affairs very much to themselves ; so it is only 
from common report we can speak of the value of the 
several chairs. But upon that authority, we believe that 
the Chair of Greek is worth above £1,000 a year ; those 
of Philosophy from £800 to £900. That of Theolcgy, 
though the premier chair of the University, does not 
stand first in point of emolument. It is said to be worth 
about £600 a year. The sums mentioned do not include 
the value of the residences. Many of the more recently- 
founded chairs have exceedingly small endowments, and 
their income is derived mainly from the fees paid by the 
students. In all the classes, the professors retain the 
fees paid them : so that a professor's income may be 
materially increased should his fame attract a greater 
number of disciples. When Sir D. Sandford was Greek 
professor, he crowded his class-room not merely with 
regular students, but with Glasgow clergymen, lawyers, 
and merchants, who attended his eloquent and enthusias- 
tic prelections. And w^e have heard it said that in those 
days the revenue of the Greek chair was above £1,500 
a year. 

Among other little advantages, the professors are free 
from payment of the local taxes ; they are also supplied 
with coals and gas. An abundant supply of newspapers 
and periodicals is provided for themselves and their fami- 
lies. And the fine old " Fore Hall," a large apartment, 
wainscoted with black oak, and by far the most pictur- 
esque chamber in the University, is occupied by the pro- 
fessors as a club-room. On the whole, a Glasgow pro- 
fessor on the old foundation leads a very comfortable life. 

One or two of the professors are unable to induce 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 205 

any one to attend their lectures. It may therefore be re- 
garded as difficult to explain what purpose these profes- 
sors serve. Dr. Nichol, the late eloquent Professor of 
Astronomy, gave occasionally short courses of popular 
lectures, which were open to all students, and which 
w^ere well attended. But no class demanding labor and 
sustained attention will find students, unless attendance 
upon it is made compulsory. We think it would be ut- 
terly useless to found new chairs in the Scotch Universi- 
ties, as has lately been proposed. We believe that to do 
so would be the very reverse of a reform or improve- 
ment. Unless attendance upon them is made an essen- 
tial part of the curriculum^ no one would attend them. 
And w^e believe that to make attendance upon them com- 
pulsory w^ould, in the case of many a student who has 
more than enough to do already, be the last pound that 
breaks the camel's back. It is in the Latin and Greek 
classes that reform is needed. Eaise the standard of 
scholarship by an examination at entering College ; give 
the professors of Latin and Greek professor's work to do, 
not that of hedge schoolmasters ; shorten to half, the pre- 
posterously extended course for the Church ; let students 
enter the University at eighteen or nineteen instead of at 
tw^elve or thirteen : they will thus not be hurried through 
the Philosophy classes while mere children, — and the 
Scotch Universities will have all the reform they need* 
But on this subject we have not time to enter. 

The first fortnight of the session, every alternate year 
is taken up with a series of violent disturbances con^ 
nected with the election of the Lord Rector. We be- 
lieve that at one time this officer had various duties to 
perform ; but for many years past his sole function has 
been to give an address to the students in the Common 



206 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

Hall upon his inauguration. The Lord Rector is elected 
by the professors and students. Tlie election goes almost 
invariablv upon political grounds, and is conducted with 
unparalleled bitterness of partv feeling. Although the 
professors always vote at the election, they profess lo 
leave the management of it in the hands of the students • 
the leaders of whom, however, are virtually directed ir 
their movements by the professors of their own party. 
AD the arts usual at other contested elections are brought 
into play, aggravated by the hot-headedness incidental to 
the youth of the parties engaged. Public meetings are 
held, and addresses and squibs of all kinds are printed 
and circulated in immense profusion. The most violent 
attacks are made by either party upon the leaders of 
the other, and upon the opposing candidate. Sometimes 
these attacks end in physical violence. At a meeting in 
one of the class-rooms, a few years ago, the platform was 
charged by a large force of antagonistic students. It 
was gallantly defended with cudgel and fist, and more 
than one of the attacking party was felled like an ox. 
The air is darkened in the Hall on the election-dav bv 
clouds of peas, of which missiles the professors get even 
more than their shai^e. These dignitaries always behave 
with great good-humor upon the occasion ; and the safur- 
nalia once over, discipline is restored, and all parties re- 
turn quietly to work. 

Among the Lord Kectors of the last thirty years, are, 
Lord Jeffrey. Sir James Mackinto^h. Lord Brougham, 
Thomas Campbell (who was elected in opf>osition to Sir 
Walter Scott), the Marquis of Lansdowne, the Earl of 
Derby, Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham. Earl Rus- 
gell. Lord Macaulay, the Duke of Argyle, and Sir E. 
Bulwer Lytton. The inaugural addresses since Jeffrey's 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 207 



iL - 



time liare been poUkhed in a large ToftoBie. 
Burke was redor in 178-^ ; he fasAj broke ^f 
address, and ^of^ied in die middle of il. 
addreag is regarded as tlie moet ck iq n rn t ; 
was a verj fine one. We remefldier tint z: 
a large jellow waistcoat, getting on in a 
throa^ his addreaa, and drinkii^ a Htt. 
close of eadi diort parafflaph. The P 
inangoratioo a rery ancient acic -' ' 
with faded gold lace. It ^ 
College, tiiat Sir Eobe 
be felt greater pri. 
patting on tlie rob- : ^ 



Thi> cbaptor has r n that 

forego oar intention , - - sdnoi tibe 

flicts with the police, few and Teen, yet iqj dca- 

perate when ther occor ; of the al b i caches of 

discipline ; of traditions of the of the last 

generation ; ci pobficatian^ — ~ =:i^ iKieC 

of whidi are remarkaWr r#^-i-v 

scenes which are som e ti mes p > 

parties given by :'i- - rssors in the coarse of — 

sion. Every Saturday manii^ in the montl 
and Ap»ril. eacb professor has fifteen or t^ ^ 

dass at breakfast, till be has got t hroo g fa i 1: 

woald reqatre another pen dian oars Id de|Hc: _ t i ~t- 
ishness and timidity rf some poor fi=flo«8 : ^ r-^rz 
The Presence, their gradoally growii^ cot 
the jaunty and jocular free-and-easiness wt _ :- 

easionally attain before the doge of the entert^iziTz:. 



We have thus endeavored to aff>r*3 oar readers s^r^ne 



208 COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 

idea of how things go on in the University of Glasgow : 
an institution which sends forth from its plain and even 
tumble-down class-rooms, " a mighty population of men, 
who have a kind and measure of education which fits 
them for taking a keen and active management in the 
affairs of ordinary life ; " and whose long course of study 
many a one has entered on a raw boy, and emerged 
from comparatively a thoughtful man. We can but very 
rarely trace the after career of Glasgow students, as we 
often may trace that of Oxford and Cambridge men, in 
the history of the senate and the country. A seat on the 
Scotch Bench is about the highest thing that a Glasgow 
man can look to, and by far the most eminent among the 
students of Glasgow pass into the simple life of a Scotch 
parish minister. It is quite remarkable to what a degree 
the Church absorbs the highest talent of the University. 
And it is a significant fact, that only two Glasgow stu- 
dents — Campbell and Jeffrey — have ever risen to the 
dignity of Lord Rector. 

Yet there are few Glasgow students who do not 
cherish a fond recollection of their College life, even 
though it may have been a hard one at the time. For 
ourselves, as we look back, not so many years, that time 
rises again before us. We call to mind the dark morn- 
ings on which we hurried to College, only half awake ; 
tlie midnight hours of solitary study, when we heard 
the clock strike two, three, four, five, through the silent 
house ; the time when we wearily rose to our day's work, 
and saw the moon hardly moved from that place in the 
sky which it held when we lay down to our poor hour of 
rest. We call to mind the half-dozen chairs littered with 
old books, fished out from the dustiest corners of the col- 
lege library ; the pages of paper daily covered, with a 



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW. 209 

pleasant sense, unknown to other work, that here was 
something tangible accomplished ; the indescribable feel- 
ing of weariness growing day bj day ; the pen which, 
towards the end of the session, we could sometimes 
scarcely hold in the trembling hand, till we had got 
warmed with half an hour's work ; the " constitutional 
w^alk " for an hour before dinner ; the delightful Saturday 
evening allowed to relaxation ; the carrying in the prize 
essays ; the list made out of all the prizes we were com- 
peting for, hovv many we shall not say ; the thankfulness 
rather than pride with which, during the last fortnight 
of the session, we marked off each in succession as won ; 
the throbbing anxiety of the tirst of May, which was to 
decide the University essay prizes ; and how musical the 
Principars voice as he read out the mottoes we knew so 
well ; then the delightful relief of total leisure in those 
bright days of May ; the summer-time spent in research 
and labor against another session ; the intense veneration 
for work which a man comes to have when he knows 
w^hat it means. Nothing to others, all these things are 
deeply interesting to one's own self; and perhaps they 
may touch some chords of recollection in some of our old 
college companions, now scattered over every quarter of 
the earth. We believe that for real hard work, for real 
mental discipline, for training to habits of industry and 
self-denial, for fitting average men to fill respectably an 
average place in society, there are very few things bet- 
ter than College Life at Glasgow, 



14 



CHAPTER VIII. 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION 



WITH SOME THOUGHTS ON COWED PEOPLE. 




T seems to me that there are few things in 
which it is more difficult to hold the just 
mean, than our feeling as to the opinion of 
those around us. For the most part, you 
will find human beings taking a quite extreme position 
as to what may be called the World's Opinion. They 
pay either too much regard to it, or too little. Either 
they are thoroughly cowed by it, or they stand towards 
it in an attitude of defiance. The cowed people, unques- 
tionably, are in the majority. Most people live in a 
vague atmosphere of dread of the world, and of what 
the world is saying of them. You may discern the 
belief which prevails with the steady-going mass of 
humankind, in the typical though not historical fact 
which was taught most of us in childhood, — that Don't 
Care came to a bad end. The actual idea which is pres- 
ent to very many minds is difficult, to define. Even to 
attempt to define it takes away that vagueness which is 
of the essence of its nature, and which is a great reason 
of the fear it excites. And the actual idea varies much 
in different minds, and in the same mind at different 
times. Sometimes, if put into shape, it would amount 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 211 

to this : — that some great and uncounted number of 
human beings is watching the person, is thinking of him, 
is forming an estimate of him, and an opinion as to what 
he ought to do. Sometimes the world's opinion becomes 
a more tangible thing : it means the opinion of the little 
circle of the person's acquaintance; or the opinion of the 
family in which he or she lives ; or the opinion of even 
some single individual of a somewhat strong, and prob- 
ably somewhat coarse and meddlesome nature. In such 
a case the w^orld becomes personified in the typical Mrs. 
Grundy ; and the fear of the world's opinion is expressed 
in the well-known question — What will Mrs. Grundy say? 
Most people, then, live in a vague fear of that which 
may be styled Mrs. Grundy : and are cowed into abject 
submission not merely to her ascertained opinions, but 
also to what they fancy that possibly her opinions may 
be. Others, again — a smaller number, and a number 
lessening as the individuals who constitute it grow older 
— confront Mrs. Grundy, and defy her. Don't Care 
was a leader of this little band. But even though Don't 
Care had not come to trouble, it is highly probable that 
as he advanced in years he would have found that he 
must care, and that he did care. For a good many 
years I have enjoyed the acquaintance and the conver- 
sation of a man who, even after he became Solicitor- 
General, held bravely yet temperately by the forlorn 
hope of which a large part has always consisted of the 
young and the wrongheaded ; and from which, with ad- 
vancing years and increasing experience, men are so apt 
to drop away. I know that it was not vaporing in him 
to say, " The hissing of collected Europe, provided I 
knew the hissers could not touch me, w^ould be a grate- 
ful sound rather than the reverse — that is, if heard 



212 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

at a reasonable distance." ^ But though I believe the 
words were sincere when he said them, yet I am con- 
vinced it was only by the stiffening of a moral nature, 
implying effort too great to last, that he was able to keep 
the feeling which these words express. I see in these 
words the expression of a desperate reaction against a 
strong natural bias ; and I believe that time would grad- 
ually crumble that resolute purpose down. By a deter- 
mined effort you may hold out a heavy weight at arm's 
length for a few minutes ; you may defy and vanquish 
the law of gravitation for that short space ; but the law of 
gravitation, quietly and unvaryingly acting, will beat yoa 
at last. And even if Ellesmere could peacefully go about 
his duty, and tranquilly enjoy his home, with that uni- 
versal hiss in his ears, I know of those into whose hearts 
that hiss would sink down, — whose hearts that hiss would 
break. How about his wife and children ? And how 
would the strong man himself feel, when day by day he 
saw by the pale cheek, the lined brow, the anxious eye, 
the unnatural submissiveness, that they were living in a 
moral atmosphere that was poisoning them ? Think of 
the little children coming in and saying that the other 
children would not play with them or speak to them. 
Think of the poor wife going to some meeting of char- 
itable ladies, and left in a corner without one to notice 
her or take pity on her. Ah, my friend Ellesmere, 
once you have given hostages to fortune, we know where 
the world can make you feel ! 

Let us give a little time to clearing up our minds on 
this great practical question, as to the influence which 
of right belongs to the world's opinion ; as to the defer- 
ence which a wise man will accord to it. Let us try to 
define that great shadowy phantom which holds numbers 
1 Ellesmere, in Companions of my Solitude. 



CONCERNINa THE WORLD'S OPINION. 213 

through all their life in a slavery which extends to all 
they say and do ; to the food they eat, and the raiment 
they put on, and the home they dwell in ; and in many 
cases even to what they think, and to what they wuU 
admit to themselves that they think. The tyranny of 
tlie w^orld's opinion is a tyranny infinitely more subtle 
and farther-reaching than that of the Inquisition in its 
worst days ; one which passes its sentences, though no 
one knows who are the judges that pronounce them ; 
and one w^hich inflicts its punishments by the hands of 
numbers who utterly disapprove them. And yet, one 
has not the comfort of feeling able to condemn this 
strange tribunal out and out ; you are obliged to con- 
fess that in the main its judgments are just, and its 
supervision is a wholesome one. Now and then it does 
things that are flagrantly unjust and absurd ; but if I 
could venture, with my experience of life, to lay down 
any general principle, it w^ould be the principle, abhorent 
to w^arm young hearts and to hasty young heads, that in 
the main the world's opinion is right in those matters to 
which the world's opinion has a right to extend. I dare 
say you will think that this is a general principle pro- 
mulgated with considerable reservation. So it is ; and I 
hardly know to which thing, the principle or the reserva- 
tion, it seems to me that the greater consideration is due. 
It is wrong, doubtless, to be always thinking what peo- 
ple will say. It is a low and wretched state of mind to 
come to. There is no more contemptible or miserable 
mortal than one of whom this can be said : — 

While you, you think 
What others think, or what yon think they'll say; 
Shaping your course by something scarce more tangible 
Than dreams, at best the shadows on the stream 
Of aspen trees by flickering breezes swayed — 



214 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

Load me with irons, drive me from morn till night, 
I am not the utter slave which that man is 
Whose sole thought, word, and deed are built on what 
The world may say of him ! 

The condition of mind described in these indignant 
lines is doubtless wrong and wretched. But still one 
feels that these lines must be understood with much 
qualification and restriction. Neither in moral prin- 
ciple, nor in common sense or taste, can one go with 
those who run to the other extreme. It is as well for 
most people to be cowed by a rule which in the main 
will keep them right, as to be suffered to run wild with 
no rule at all. The road to insanity is even more short 
and direct to the man who resolves that he shall do 
nothing like anybody else, than to the poor subdued 
creature in whom the fear of the world's judgment has 
run to that morbid excess that she fancies that as she 
goes along the street every one is pointing at her. 
There was nothing fine in Shelley's wearing a round 
blue jacket after he was a married man, just because 
men in general do not wear boys' jackets. And his 
writing Atheist after his name in the tourists' book, to 
shock people, does not strike me for its profanity half 
60 much as for its idiotic silliness and its contemptible 
littleness. I do not admire the woman who walks about, 
a limp and conspicuous figure, in the days when crinoline 
is universally accepted. The extreme of crinoline is silly ; 
the utter absence of it is silly ; the wise and safe course 
is tne middle one. I do not think it wise or admirable 
for a lady to walk a quarter of a mile bareheaded along a 
crowded street to a friend's house, even though thus she 
may save the trouble of going up-stairs for her bonnet. I 
do not approve the young fellow who tells you, when you 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 215 

speak to him about some petty flying in the face of the 
conventional notion of propriety, that he will do exactly 
what he likes, and that he does not care a straw what 
any one may think or say. That young fellow is in a 
very unsafe, and a very unstable position. It is not likely 
that he will long remain at his present moral stand-point. 
It is extremely probable that after a few signal instances 
of mischief brought upon himself by that defiant spirit, 
he will be cowed into abject submission to what people 
may think, and become afraid almost to move or breathe 
for fear of what may be said by folk whose opinion he 
secretly despises. He will gain a reputation for want of 
common sense, which it will be very difficult to get rid of. 
And even the humblest return to his allegiance to Mrs. 
Grundy may fail to conciliate that mdividual's favor, lost 
by many former insults. 

There are some persons who are bound, not merely in 
prudence, but in principle, to consider the world's opinion 
a good deal. They are bound, not merely to avoid evil^ 
but to avoid even the appearance of evil. And this be- 
cause their usefulness in this world may be very preju- 
dicially affected by the unfavorable opinion of those 
around them. It is especially so with the clergy. A 
clergyman's usefulness depends very much on the es- 
timation in which he is held by his parishioners. It is 
desirable that his parishioners should like him : it is 
quite essential that they should respect him. It is not 
wise in the parson to shock the prejudices of those 
around him. It will be his duty sometimes to yield to 
opinions which he thinks groundless. However fond a 
clergyman of the Anglican Church may be of a choral 
service, it will be extremely foolish and wrongheaded in 
him to endeavor to thrust such a service upon a congre- 



216 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

gation of people who in their ignorance think it Popish. 
And it will not be prudent in a clergyman of the Scotch 
Church, placed in a remote country parish where the 
population retains a good deal of the old covenanting 
leaven, to fill his church windows with stained glass, or 
even to put a cross above the eastern gable. And such 
H man will also discern that it is his duty to practise a 
certain economy and reticence in the explaining of his 
views as to instrumental music in church, and liturgical 
services. If it be the fact that many rustics in the par- 
ish regard these things as marks of the Beast, he need 
not obtrude the fact that he holds a different opinion. 
For he would then, in some quarters, bring all his teach- 
ing into suspicion. Let Mr. Snarling take notice, that 
I am counselling no reserve in the grave matters of doc- 
trine : no reserve, that is, in the sense of making your 
people fancy that you believe what you do not believe, 
or that you do not believe what you do. The only 
economy in doctrine which I should approve would be 
that of bringing out and applying the truth which seems 
most needful at the time, and best fitted for its exigen- 
cies. But as to other things, both in statement and in 
conduct, I hold by a high authority which states that 
many things may be lawful for the parson which are 
not expedient. And I believe that in little things the 
world's judgment is right in the main. There is a grav- 
itation of society towards common sense : at least to ap- 
proving it, if not to acting upon it. I am not going to 
defend hats and -the like ; or to stand up for our angular 
Western dress against the flowing garments of the East, 
though I believe our dress is more convenient if it be 
less graceful. And I do not believe there is any per- 
verse bent of society to what is ugly and inconvenient 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 2H 

at least in male attire : if any hatter or tailor produced 
a better covering, which would be as cheap, it would 
doubtless find acceptance. But I hold that it is not 
wise for any ordinary man to take issue with his race 
on any point of dress. He will not be the wisest of 
judges who shall first lay aside the venerable wig of 
gray horsehair. It is not expedient that a young cler- 
gyman should fly in the face of his parishioners on such 
a question as the wearing of a shooting-coat or a black 
neck-tie, or as going out with the hounds. It was not 
wise in John Foster, the great Baptist preacher, to hor- 
rify his simple flock by appearing in his pulpit in a gray 
coat and a red waistcoat. No doubt, in logic, his posi- 
tion was unassailable. For people who reject all cleri- 
cal robes as Popish, it is manifestly absurd to make a 
stand for a black coat and a white neckcloth. By mak- 
ing a stand for these, you cut the ground from under 
your feet : you admit the principle which justifies satin 
and lawn. Let me say, a sound and reasonable princi- 
ple too. It is not fitting that in every-day attire a man 
should conduct the worship of God's house. But even 
with folk who thought differently, ^ohn Foster acted 
unwisely. As lawyers would say, it was a bad issue to 
take. I know how a certain eminent essayist, whom I 
much revere, stands up for eccentricity. He holds it 
to be a useful protest against our tendency to a dead 
conformity. I venture to say that, generally, it is not 
wise to be eccentric. You find that eccentric people 
are usually eccentric in little things, not worth fighting 
about. We all know that there are great and impor- 
tant things in which the world thinks wrongly : take 
issue there with the world, if you like : but it is not worth 
while to do so in small matters of dress and behavior. 



218 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

It is not worth while to take a beard into the pulpit where 
it will interfere with the congregation's attention to the 
sermon ; nor to appear in the same place in lavender 
gloves in a country where lavender gloves, in such a 
locality, are unknown. It is wise to give in to the little 
requirements on which the w^orld's opinion has been 
plainly expressed. If you are resolved to take a part 
of opposition to all the world, do so in the behalf of 
things which are worth the trouble of the strife. Let 
it not be engraven on your tombstone. Here lies the 
man who confronted the human race on the question of 
the wide-awake hat. Stand up for truth and right, if 
you are fond of fighting : you will have many opportu- 
nities in this life. Smite the flunkey, pierce the hum- 
bug, violently kick the aristocratic liar and seducer, and 
probably you will find abundant occupation. But though 
you know it is a pleasant and enjoyable thing for your- 
self and your children to sit on the steps of your coun- 
try-house in the sunshine after breakfast, you will not 
gain the approval of wise men by doing the like on the 
steps of your town-house in a miich-frequented street : 
say, for example, in Princes-street in Edinburgh. And 
though you often roll on the grass with your little boy 
in the country, do not attempt the like on the pavement 
of such a public way. For in that case it is conceivable 
that you may be jeered at by the passers-by, and appre- 
liended by the police. And while you are being con- 
veyed to the station-house, instead of being esteemed as 
a philosopher and revered as a martyr, it is not impossi- 
ble that you may be laughed at as a fooL " We sat on 
the bridoje, and swunor our le^js over the water : " with 
these words an eloquent writer lately began an essay. 
Of course, the bridge w^as in a quiet rural spot. If the 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 219 

writer and his friend had done the like on London 
bridge, the small boys would have hallooed at them^ 
and the constable would have moved them on. Yet 
the merits of the deed are the same in either case. Onl} 
in the one case the world says You may ; in the other 
case it says You must not. And the human being who 
resists the world's judgment in these little matters, shows, 
not strength, but weakness. Where principle is involved, 
it is noble to swing your legs ; but not otherwise. But 
doubtless you have remarked that it is a common thing 
to find great obstinacy in petty concerns in a man who 
has no real firmness. You will find people who are 
squeezable and facile in the great affairs of life, and in 
their larger opinions have not a mind of their own, but 
adopt the opinion of the last person they heard express 
one ; yet who persistently stick to some little absurd or 
bad habit which they have often been entreated to leave 
off, which annoys their friends, and makes them ridicu- 
lous. You will find a man whom you might turn round 
with a straw in his belief on any question political, 
moral, or literary, but who, having taken up the ground 
that once one is three, would go to the stake rather than 
give in to the world's way of thinking on that point. 

I beg the reader to observe, that I do not counsel a 
general conformity to the appointments of his particular 
world, merely on the ground that non-conformity maj 
cause him to be derided, or disliked, or suspected. J 
wish him to think of the injury which his non-conform- 
ity may occasion to others. If your shooting-coat, my 
clerical brother, however light and easy to walk in on 
a hot summer day, is to stand between a poor dying 
girl and the comfort and profit she might get from your 
wunsels and pi'ayers, why, I think, if you are the man 



220 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

I mean, that you will determine never to go beyond your 
own gate but in the discomfort (often very great in coun- 
try parishes) of severely clerical attire. Possibly few 
of my readers know that in various rural districts of 
Scotland a sermon, however admirable, will do no good 
if the preacher reads it ; he must either give it extem- 
pore, or appear to do so by having previously written 
it and committed it to memory. " I canna thole the 
paper," I have heard an intelligent farmer say. He 
meant, he could not bear the sight of the manuscript 
discourse. It is fair to add that this prejudice is fast 
dying out, even in rural parishes ; while in large towns 
in Scotland, it has entirely disappeared. But however 
unreasonable and stupid may have been the prejudice 
which condemned overwrought ministers to several hours 
weekly of the irksome school-boy labor of getting their 
sermons by heart, and however painful the anxiety which 
a man with an uncertain memory must often have felt on 
a Sunday morning, in the fear that he might forget what 
he had painfully prepared, and be reduced to a state of 
utter blankness, and ignominiously stick in his sermon ; 
still, you will thirtk that a conscientious man, earnest to 
do good, would make this painful sacrifice, not to his 
popularity, but to his usefulness. Let me confess, for 
myself, that I cannot imagine how the elder clerg}^ of 
the Scotch Church were able to accomplish this awful 
toil. The father of the present writer, for thirty years, 
wrote and committed to memory two sermons of forty 
minutes each, every w^eek ; and hundreds of his brethren 
did the same. I could not do it, to save my life. Surely 
the intellectual fibre of the new generation is less mus- 
cular than that of their fathers. I have made mention 
of a judicious economy in giving instruction. You may 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 221 

discern the result of the want of it in what we are told 
about a poor dying laborer, in one of the midland coun- 
ties of England. It is quite unquestionable that the 
world goes round the sun ; but it is not in the weakness 
of the parting hours of life that a poor uneducated man 
should be called to reconstruct the theory of the universe 
under which he had lived all his days. And though it 
was certainly needful to explain to the dying man the 
meanino: of Christian faith, it mio;ht have been done 
without going into anything like metaphysics ; and in a 
way in which a child of six years old might understand 
it, possibly as well as the parson himself. But a young 
parson could not see this. He would correct all the in- 
tellectual errors of his humble parishioner. He would 
pour upon him a flood of knowledge. Possibly you may 
smile at the odd expressions ; but I remember few sen- 
tences which have so touched me with their hopeless 
pathos, as that with which the dying man feebly turned 
to the wall, and spoke no more. " Wut wi' faeth," he 
said, " and wut wi' the earth goin' round the sun, and 
wut wi' the railways all a-whuzzin' and a-buzzin', I'm 
clean muddled, confoozled, and bet ! " Well, let us 
hope that light came at the evening-time upon that 
blind, benighted way. 

It should be borne in mind, that as to any particulai 
subject, there is sometimes great difficulty in ascertaining 
what the world (by w^hich I mean our own particular 
world) is actually saying. It seems to me especially diffi- 
cult to know, in a small community, what is the general 
opinion upon almost any matter. For you may fall in 
with people holding quite exceptional opinions. And ex- 
ceptional opinions are often very strongly held ; and held 



222 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

by very clever men. I remember hearing a really able 
man (one whom the great world has recognized as such) 
declare that in his judgment a certain clergyman, not re- 
markable for talent, earnestness, oddity, or anything but 
self-conceit, was the greatest preacher he had ever listened 
to ; incomparably greater than A, B, C, or D, each of 
whom is well known to fame. The man who expressed 
this opinion was one you would have been obliged to 
admit as most competent to form an opinion ; yet some- 
how, for some inexplicable reason, some sympathy or an- 
tipathy beyond the reach of reasoning, he had come 
firmly to hold an opinion which was entirely exceptional, 
which was shared by no other human being. And thus 
the world may be saying one thing at one tea-table, and 
just the opposite at another tea-table, in some little coun- 
try town. At one tea-table, the sermon of last Sunday 
may be very good ; at the other it may be very bad. The 
like difference of opinion may exist as to the efficiency of 
the member of parliaaient. At one table, he may be a 
worthy, hard-w^orking man ; at the other, a poor silly 
creature. So with the singing of Miss X. If you are 
enjoying the cup that does not particularly cheer with 
Mrs. Smith and her set of friends, you may be informed, 
as a stranger to the town, that a great treat awaits you in 
listening to Miss X's songs. Her voice is splendid, and 
admirably cultivated ; her taste exquisite. She is gener- 
ally regarded as singing better than Jenny Lind. You 
naturally go away with the belief that in the opinion of 
the world at Drumsleekie, Miss X is a very great singer. 
But all this is due to the accident of your taking tea with 
Mrs. Smith. Had it been Mrs. Jones, you would have 
been told that Miss X overstrained her voice ; that she 
sang untruly; that she sang fiat ; that she sang harshly; 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 223 

that lier affectation in singing was such that it was hard to 
refrain from throwing something at her head ; and finally, 
that she could not sing at all. All this is perplexing. 
It would be a comfort to get over the preliminary diffi- 
culty, and to find out what it is that the world actually 
does say. Its voice, however, conveys an uncertain sound. 
And it would cost more time and trouble than the result 
would be worth, to add up the tea-tables on one side, 
and the tea-tables on the other side, and then discover on 
which side is the preponderant weight. And in case it 
should be found that the tea-tables on either side exactly 
balanced each other, the difficulty would arise, that it 
would appear that in Drumsleekie, on the subject of 
Miss X's singing, the world had no opinion at all. The 
favorable and unfavorable would just neutralize one 
another. And as with the singing of Miss X, so will you 
find it with the beauty of Miss Y, and the manners of 
Miss Z. Likewise with the horses of Mr. Q, and the po- 
ems of Mr. R. In short, to sum the matter up, it depends 
entirely on the set into which you get in a small community, 
what impression you are to carry away as to the general 
opinion upon any question. For though one slice taken 
from a leg of mutton will give you a fair idea of the gen- 
eral flavor of all the joint ; yet you may (so to speak) cut 
a slice out of the talk of the town which shall be entirely 
different from all the rest. You may have chanced on 
the faction which cries up the new town-hall, or on the 
faction which cries it down. You may have chanced on 
the party which thinks the parson the greatest of men, or 
on the party which esteems him as one of the least. 

Then it is certain that Mrs. Grundy may be made to 
appear to say almost anything, by the skilful management 
and the energy of two or three pushing individuals. It 



224 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

is possible for a very small number of persons to get up 
a sough (to use the Scotch phrase) either for or against 
a man. A few clacking busybodies, running about from 
house to house, may disseminate a vague unfavorable im- 
pression. A few hearty, active, energetic friends may 
cause the world's opinion, in a little place, to seem to be 
getting very strongly in a man's favor. You have proba- 
bly heard the legend, which very likely is fabulous, of the 
fashion in which the blacking of a certain eminent man 
rose into universal fame. The eminent man hired four 
footmen, of loud and fluent power of expression, and of 
brazen countenance. He arrayed them in gorgeous liv- 
eries ; the livery of each being quite different from that 
of the other three. Then, each alone, from morning to 
evening they pervaded London ; and this was w^iat they 
did. When each footman saw a shop in which blacking 
appeared likely to be sold, he rushed into it with great 
appearance of excitement, and exclaimed in a hurried 
manner, " Give me some of Snooks's blacking instantly." 
Snooks, it should be mentioned, was the name of his 
eminent employer. " Snooks's blacking," said the man 
in the shop ; " we never heard of it ! " " Not heard of 
Snooks's blacking ! " exclaimed the footman ; '' w^hy, my 
master won't let me brush his boots with any other ; and 
just now he is roaring at me for brushing his boots this 
morning with that of Stiggins ; I must be off elsewhere 
and get Snooks's blacking forthwith." This interview 
naturally startled the man in the shop ; he began to think, 
" I must get some of Snooks's blacking ; everybody must 
be using Snooks's blacking ! " And when, in the course 
of the day, the other three footmen severally visited 
his shop as the first had done ; one exclaiming, " the 
Chancellor \vont use anything but Snooks's blacking ; " 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 225 

miother " his Grace wont use anything but Snooks's 
blacking ;" the last (in crimson livery), " his Majesty wont 
use anything but Snooks's blacking ; " the man in the shop 
took his resolution. He found out the factory of Snooks, 
and ordered a large quantity of his blacking. 

That which has pushed blacking into fame, has dene 
the like for other things. Two or three individuals, vig- 
orously puffing a book, may cause it to seem that the 
world's judgment in the locality where they live is in that 
book's favor. And most people will bow to that judg- 
ment. Not very many people have so much firmness, or 
confidence in themselves, as to hold their own opinion in 
the presence of the strongly expressed opinion of the 
world on the other side. And a loud and confident declar- 
iition that something is very bad, will silence and put down 
many people, who in their secret soul think it very good. 

The sough, or general opinion and belief in a country 
district, may occasionally be got up by persons who are 
little better than idiots. Let me relate a story which I 
heard, long ago. A very distinguished preacher once 
went to preach in the parish church of a certain big 
and ugly village in Scotland. The village lies among 
the hills, in a pastoral district. It had no railway com- 
munication ; no near neighbors ; no large town within 
many miles. The people, many of them, were very ig- 
norant, very pragmatical and self-conceited. The big 
and ugly village thought it was the centre of the world ; 
possibly, that it was the whole world. Its population 
formed an unfavorable estimate of the preaching of the 
great orator. It was generally said in the village that 
" his sermons were no' very weel conneckit." It happens 
that the discourses of that clergyman are remarkable for 
their logical linkedness of thought ; for the symmetry and 
15 



226 CONCERNING THE. WORLD'S OPINION. 

beauty of their skeleton, no less than for the brilliance 
and range of their illustrations. But some blockhead 
said (not having anything particular to say) that they 
were " no' very weel conneckit." Other blockheads 
grasped at this. It was something to say ; and to say 
it seemed to imply the possession of some critical acu- 
men. So the voice of Mrs. Grundy, in that village, 
reechoed that statement on every side. The statement 
was, indeed, absurd. You might as well have said that 
the sermons were distinguished by their ignorant im- 
patience of the relaxation of taxation, or by their want 
of mezzotinto. But people seized it, and repeated it. 
I remember going as a boy to that locality ; and hear- 
ing several persons, all densely stupid, and most of 
them very conceited, speak of the great preacher. They 
all criticized him in the selfsame terms : " His sermons 
were no' very weel conneckit ! " But there is no opin- 
ion expressed with so great confidence as the opinion 
of the man who is incapable of forming any opinion. 
I remember an old gentleman telling me how he went 
to hear Dr. Chalmers. " I could not understand the 
man," said he ; "I could not see what he was driving 
at." I am entirely satisfied that the old gentleman told 
the truth. Like the Squire in the Vicar of Wakefeld, 
Dr. Chalmers could supply argument, but he could not 
supply intellect to comprehend it. 

An unfavorable sough may be got up in a rural district, 
by a man who combines caution with malignity ; and all 
in such a way that you cannot lay hold of the malicious 
but cautious man. Let us suppose a new doctor is com- 
ing to the village. You, the old doctor, may go about the 
village and beg the people to try and receive him civilly ; 
he may not be such a bad man after all. The truth 



COXCERNIXG THE WORLD'S OPINION. 227 

probably is, that nobody supposes him a bad man, or 
intends to receive him otherwise than civilly; but a few 
days judiciously spent may excite a prejudice which it 
will take some time to allay. Some one speaks to you in 
praise of an acquaintance. You may reply, in a hesitat- 
ing way, " Yes ; he is rather a nice fellow ; but 

well, I don't want to say anything bad of any one." In 
this way you have not committed yourself; but you have 
conveyed a w^orse impression than you could probably 
liave conveyed by any definite charge you could have 
made against the man. Honest and manly folk, indeed, 
may possibly call you a sneak. What do you care ? 
Some muscular Christian may kick you. In that case 
you will have the comfort of knowing that it unquestiona- 
bly serves you right. 

There is something w^orrying and vexatious, in think- 
ing that the sough of the country-side^ which in Scotland 
signifies the general opinion of the neighborhood, is run- 
ning against yourself and your possessions ; even though 
you heartily despise the individuals whose separate judg- 
ments go to make up that sough. For you gradually 
come to attach considerable importance to the opinion of 
the people among whom you live, even though that opin- 
ion be in itself w^orth nothing. There is compensation, 
however, in the fact, that if the unfavorable opinions of 
stupid and incompetent people are able to depress a man, 
the favorable opinions of stupid and incompetent people 
are able to elate and encourage even a very clever and 
wise man. Many such men are kept up to the mark at 
which they do good and even great things, by rumors of 
the high estimation in w^hich they are held by Mrs. 
Grundy. There is probably as much happiness commu- 



228 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

nicated to a human being by the favorable estimate of 
those around him — though they are people of no great 
standing, and not very wise — as if they were the wisest 
and noblest of the land. For, by degrees, even the wise 
man begins to fancy that these people who think so highly 
of him are not quite ordinary folk ; they are more capa- 
ble judges of human excellence than people in theix' 
station in life usually are. I can quite understand that 
the author who finds his book praised in the Little Ped- 
dlington Gazette, or the Whistlehinhie Banner of Freedom^ 
will conclude that these are important newspapers, con- 
ducted with intelligence much surpassing that of country 
papers in general. He will be quite cheerful for a whole 
forenoon after reading in either of those journals, that he 
is one of the most original thinkers of the age. So a 
clergyman, who is popular in his own parish, will quite 
honestly come to think that its population is remarkable 
for its intelligence and its power of appreciating a good 
sermon. Of course, as has been said, the converse case 
holds good. The ill opinion of those around you, if quite 
universal, is depressing, however much you may despise 
that opinion. Not only is that unfavorable estimate 
always around you, like an unhealthy atmosphere, but 
you gradually come to think that the people who hold it 
are rather wise and important people. A parson, going 
from a large and intelligent parish to one where the peo- 
ple are few and uncultivated, knows at first very nearly 
what is the mark of his present position and his present 
congregation. He knows that, seriously, the opinion 
which his parishioners form of him is neither here nor 
there. But he learns very soon that comfort and discom- 
fort may be caused by judgments which are absolutely 
valueless. You may remember what Philip Van Arte- 



CONCERNING THE WORLD»S OPINION. 229 

velde says of that which may be regarded as the most 
favorable of all individual estimates of man : — 

How little flattering is a woman's love ! — 
"Worth to the heart, come how it may, a world ; 
Worth to men's measures of their own deserts, 
If weighed in wisdom's balance, merely nothing ! 

And gradually you go farther than Van Arte velde. 
Probably even that philosophic man, as he found day by 
day new indications of the warm affection and the hearty 
admiration of the woman he had in his mind when he 
said such words, began to think that, after all, there must 
be something unusual about him to elicit all that devo- 
tion ; began to think that her opinion was sound and just ; 
and that she must be a person of no ordinary sagacity 
who arrived at a judgment so true. You will do all that. 
You will not only be pleased by the favorable estimate of 
incompetent judges : you will come to think that they are 
very competent judges. A clergyman who at one time 
used to preach to a great crowd of cultivated folk in 
London, told me that after he had been a few months in 
a little country-parish, he felt quite pleased when he 
found the mill-girls of a manufacturing town four miles 
off, walking over on Sundays to hear him preach ; and 
also that he began to think these mill-girls very intelli- 
gent people, whose appreciation was worth having. Your 
*' nature is subdued to what it works in." You stand in 
considerable awe of things amid which you always live. 
And the truth is, that almost everything, when you come 
to know it well, is bigger than the stranger fancies it. 
It is because things, when you come to know them, are 
really so good, that the lues Boswelliana prevails to such 
a degree in biographers ; that each parson thinks his own 
church in some one respect superior to the general run ; 



230 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

and that the rustics of each parish think their own the 
finest in the country. The things are really very good ; 
and it is difficult to estimate how good, relatively to oth- 
ers. When a wise man finds himself second, or ninth, or 
nineteenth, in competition with others, whether the compe- 
tition be in the size of his turnips, the speed of his horses, 
the beauty of his pictures, the bitterness of his reviews 
the amiability of his children, or f^^e badness of his head- 
aches (all matters of which people are given to boast), 
the wise man will not necessarily conclude that he him- 
self or his belongings are less good or great than he had 
previously bestowed. The right conclusion is this : that 
other men and their belongings are better or bigger than 
he had fancied them. And though the favorable appre- 
ciation of judges, barristers, cabinet ministers, and the 
like, is undoubtedly worth more than that of factory-girls, 
still the favorable appreciation of the factory-girls may 
be regarded as worth a good deal, by one who lives ex- 
clusively among factory-girls. 

Besides this, there is a further consideration that comes 
in to give weight to the unfavorable judgment of Mrs. 
Grundy. A wise man, knowing how hum^n vanity leads 
people to over-estimate their own merits, would, if he 
found that everybody thought he was a fool, begin to fear 
that he was one ; and also to fear that the fact that he 
could not see he was a fool showed the hopelessness of 
his condition ; as we know that a maniac occasionally 
believes that he is the only sane person in the world. I 
believe that there is nothing that can hold a man up 
against the depressing effect of being held in little esteem 
by those around him, as his family, or his neighbors ; but 
the fact of his being held in good estimation by some per- 
son or persons elsewhere, whom he can regard as wiser 



C0NCERXI:NG the V^"ORLD'S OPINION. 231 

and worthier judges of him than those around him are. 
I have known a great preacher, whose church was nearly 
empty on Sundays. It was in a remote rural district. 
But whenever he went to preach in any large town, the 
church in which he preached w^as crowded to excess. 
So he could set the opinion of the remote Mrs. Grundy 
against that of the near Mrs. Grundy, and, though sur- 
rounded by the unfavorable estimation of the near Mrs. 
Grundy, he could retain composure and confidence in 
himself, by backing up his estimate of himself with that 
of the distant w^orld. And there are people with no dis- 
tant friends to lean on, who yet, in a remote situation, 
find the support and sympathy they w^ant, in the better 
part of our periodical literature. The Times, coming 
daily to an educated man in a very rustic place, is a 
great blessing. So is the Saturday Review to the coun- 
try parson. So are the Quarterly Reviews generally. 
He will find much in them with which he cannot agree ; 
a good deal which is extremely distasteful to him. But 
in reading them, he breathes a different atmosphere from 
that in which he is placed by many of his daily concerns 
and acquaintances. He finds in them something to pre- 
vent him from being cowed into conformity. He finds 
the thoughts of cultivated men, holding the same canons 
of taste with himself; and, in the main, holding nearly 
the same great points of belief on more important things. 
X felt it as a comfort, after lately hearing a man say that 
a certain noble cathedral w^as " a great ugly jail of a 
place," to read a brilhant article in praise of Gothic 
architecture. And when you are building a pretty 
Elizabethan house, with all its graceful characteristics, 
you do not mind a bit that Mrs. Grundy, Mr. Snarling, 
ftnd Mi^s Limejuice go about saying that it is gimcrack, 



232 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

barbarous, Popish, inconvenient, dark, and fit only fof 
monks and nuns, when you are able to turn to many 
pages on which competent men have set out the beauties 
and comforts of that delightful style, and shown up the non- 
sense of the stupid and tasteless folk who abuse it. But if 
you stood alone in the world in your love for the well-shown 
gable and the pointed arch, it may be feared that, unless 
you had the determination of the martyr, you would be 
badgered into keeping your opinions to yourself, and into 
conforming your practice to that of other people. There 
are few more delightful things to any one who has long 
lived among those with whom he feels no sympathy, than 
to find himself among people who think and feel as he 
does. And there is more than pleasure in the case ; 
there is something in this that will strengthen and vivify 
his tastes and beliefs into redoubled energy. 

You will not unfrequently find people who loudly pro- 
fess their contempt for the world's opinion, who are really 
living in abject terror of it. A coward, you know, often 
assumes a bullying manner. And there is no Aveaker or 
sillier way of considering Mrs. Grundy, than to be ever 
on the watch for opportunities of shocking her. It is for 
the most part nervous people, very much afraid of her, 
who do this. We all know persons who take great de- 
light in trying to astonish mankind by the awful opinions 
they express, and by conduct flatly opposed to the rules 
of civilized society. You will find parsons who in their 
sermons like to frighten people, by sailing as near un- 
sound doctrine as possible ; or by a manner very devoid 
of that gravity which becomes the time and place. So 
with young ladies who smoke cigars, or talk in a fast 
manner to gentlemen on subjects and about people of 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 233 

which they ought to know nothing. So with the greater 
part of all eccentricity. One can bear eccentricity, how- 
ever great, when it is genuine. One can bear the man, 
however oddly he may act, who acts in Mrs. Grundy's 
presence as though he saw her not; and who hona fide 
does not see her. But it is a very wretched and con- 
temptible thing, to witness a man doing very bold things, 
going through all kinds of eccentric gyrations, with a 
Bide-glance all the while at Mrs. Grundy, and with an ear 
upon the stretch to remark what she is going to say. 

There are men who are right in carefully observing 
the world's opinion of them and their doings : whose 
duty it is to observe these things carefully. There are 
men who know for certain that the world has an opinion of 
them : an opinion varying from day to day ; and an opin- 
ion upon whose variations very tangible results depend. 
Such a man is the Prime Minister in Britain. His pos- 
session of actual power and of profitable place depends just 
upon the world's opinion of him ; an opinion which ebbs 
and flows from week to week : which is indicated unmistak- 
ably by his parliamentary majority as it rises and sinks ; 
and which is affected by a host of circumstances quite 
away from the Premier's merits. If the Premier is de- 
sirous to retain his place, I should fancy that, till he gets 
indurated to it, it must be a most disagreeable one. From 
what a variety of quarters the voice cf Mrs. Grundy 
must be borne to his ears ; and how difficult it must be 
to know precisely what importance to attach to this or that 
specific bellow ! Judging from the easy way in which the 
present head of the government bears his functions, one 
would suppose that to be Prime Minister must be like 
being stoker of an American high-pressure steamer. At 



234 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

first, you will be in momently expectation of being blown 
up ; but by and by you will come to take it quite coolly ; 
indeed, with a hardihood rather appalling to most people 
to see. There is no one who has it in his power to know 
so certainly and immediately w^hat his own world thinks 
of him, as a great actor. It is an index of his popular- 
ity, as certain as the mercury in the thermometer is of 
the temperature, how the theatre fills at which he per- 
forms. And to him, popularity is more than empty 
praise. It is substantial pudding. The bread and but- 
ter of his wife and children depend upon it. There are 
cases in which it is a miserable spectacle to see a man 
eagerly anxious about the world's opinion. There is no 
more contemptible and degrading sight, than a clergyman 
who sets his heart upon popularity as a preacher ; who 
is always fishing for compliments, and using claptrap 
arts ^o draw a crowd and amaze people. You come to 
hear of preachers who, it is plain, are prepared to go 
any length : men wdio would preach standing on their 
head rather than fail of creating a sensation. I thank 
God I never listened to such ; but I have read in print 
addresses described as having been given in buildings 
professedly used for the worship of the Almighty, which 
addresses, in their title, subject, and entire tone, were 
perfectly analogous to the advertisements and exhibitions 
of a juggler. Their vulgar buffoonery and disgusting 
profanity were intended as a bait to the lowest and worst 
classes in the community. You may have known persons, 
in various walks of life, who were in the possession of 
the world's good opinion, but who could not be said to be 
in the enjoyment of it. It did not make them happy to 
have it, but it would have made them miserable to lose 
it. To go down a peg or two in the scale of fame would 



CONCERNIXG THE WORLD'S OPtNIOltT. 235 

have been unendurable. And jou would find them occa- 
sionally putting out feelers, to try whether the popular 
gale was slackening. Should it show signs of slackening, 
you have various acquaintances who will be careful to 
inform you. I knew a young divine who preached for 
almost the first time at a certain country church. A few 
days after, a man from the parish, a vulgar person, and 
almost a stranger, came and assured him that his sermon 
did not by any means guv sahtisfawkshun. I have known 
a person, a stupid and ignorant blockhead, who devoted 
himself to going about and retailing to every one he 
knew, any wretched little piece of tattle which might be 
disagreeable to hear. I don't believe the man was malig- 
nant. I suppose he yielded to an impulse analogous to 
that which makes a hen cackle when it has laid an egg. 
Unhappily, some men are so weak that though they find 
it unpleasant to be informed that the world is pronounc- 
ing opinion against them, they yet find a certain fascina- 
tion impelling them to learn all particulars as to this 
unfriendly opinion. And so the ignorant blockhead found 
many attentive auditors. Doubtless this gratified him. 
My readers, cut such a man short at once. Snub him. 
Shut him up. As you would close the window through 
which a bitter north-east wind is blowing into your cham- 
ber on a winter day, so shut up this wretched gutter that 
conveys to you the dregs of Mrs. Grundy ! 

As you go on through life, my friend, you will discover 
a good many Cowed People. These people have been 
fairly beaten by their fear of what the world will say. 
They arc always in a vague alarm. They are afraid of 
doing or saying the most innocent thing, lest in some 
way, they cannot say how, it may turn to their prejudice. 



236 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

They are in mortal dread of committing themselves. 
They live in some general confused apprehension of 
what may come next. They are always thinking that 
Mr. A bowed rather stiffly to them, and wondering what 
it can mean ; that Mrs. B looked the other way as they 
passed, and no doubt intends to finally cut their acquaint- 
ance ; and the like. All this shades off into develop^ 
ments which pass the limit of sanity ; as believing that 
the entire population of the place have combined against 
them, and that the human race at large is resolved to 
thwart their plans and crush their hopes. I do not men- 
tion these things to be laughed at. The sincerest sympa- 
thy is due to such as suffer in this way. No doubt all 
this founds upon a nervous, anxious nature ; but it has 
been greatly fostered by lending a ready ear to such 
stupid, if not malicious, tatlers as have just been men- 
tioned. There is, indeed, much of natural temperament 
here ; much of physical constitution. There are boys 
who go to school each morning, trembling with vague 
apprehension, they cannot say of what. Possibly there 
is some idea that all their companions may league against 
them. There is not much of the magnanimous about 
boys ; and such a poor little fellow probably leads a sad 
enough school life. And years afterwards, when he is a 
man in business, you may find him going away from his 
cottage on the outskirts into town each morning, to get 
his letters and attend to the day's transactions, as Daniel 
might have gone into the den. To many human beings 
the world is as a great, fierce machine, whirring and 
grinding inexorably on ; and their great desire is to keep 
away from it. And possibly the man who is most thor- 
oughly cowed by the world is not the man who lives in 
an even and equable awe of it ; but rather he who now 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 237 

and then rebels, makes a frantic, foolish fight for freedom, 
gets terribly mauled in a quarrel with the world on some 
stupid issue, and then gives up, and sinks down beaten 
into a state of utter prostration. Probably such a man, 
for a while after each desperate rally, is the most cowed 
of cowed men. 

There are human beings of this temperament who 
seem to feel as though any street in which an acquaint- 
ance lives were barricaded against their passage. They 
will tell you they don't like to pass Mr. Smith's house, 
lest he should see them. You listen with wonder, and 
possibly you reply : " Suppose he does, what then ? " Of 
course they cannot answer your question ; they cannot 
fix on any specific evil result which would follow if Mr. 
Smith did happen to see them ; they have simply a vague 
fear of the consequences of that event. You will find 
such people, if they are Avalking along the street, and see 
any one they know coming in their direction, instantly 
get out of the w^ay by turning down some side lane. I 
believe that in the hunting-field the cry of " Ware wheat/ " 
warns the horseman to keep oflf the ground sown with 
that precious grain, lest the crop suffer damage. I think 
I have seen human beings, the voice of w^hose whole na- 
ture, as they advanced through creation, appeared to be 
'' Ware Friends / '^ Their wish was just to keep out of 
anybody's way. It was vain to ask what harm w^ould 
follow even if they met Mr. Green or the Miss Browna^ 
They did not know exactly why they were afraid : they 
were vaguely cowed. Is it because the present wr 'er 
feels within himself something which might ultimately 
land him in that wretched condition of moral prostra- 
tion, that he is anxious to describe it accurately and pro- 
test against it bitterly ? You find people so thoroughly 



238 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

cowed, that they appear to be always apologizing for 
venturing to be in this world. They seem virtually to 
say to every one they meet, but especially to all baro- 
nets, lords, and the like, ^' I beg your pardon for being 
here." You will find them saying this even to wealthy 
mercantile men. Not only is this a painful and degrad- 
ing point to arrive at ; I do not hesitate to say that it is 
a morally wrong one. It implies a forgetfulness of Who 
put you in this world, my friend, that you should wish to 
skulk through it in that fashion. Is not this the right 
thing for a human being to feel. The Creator put me 
here, in my lowly place indeed ; but I have as good a 
right in this world, in my own place in it, as the Queen 
or the President. My title to be here is exactly the same 
as that of the greatest and noblest : it is the will of my 
Maker. And I shall follow the advice of a good and 
resolute man in an early century, who was always ready 
to give honor to whom it was due, but who would not 
abnegate his rights as man, for mortal. I intend to do 
what he said should be done by " every man," — I in- 
tend, " wherein I am called, therein to abide with God." 

There are few more contemptible exhibitions of human 
slavery than you may find in cowed people who, in every 
little thing they do, are guided not by their notion of 
what is right, but by their belief as to what Mrs. Grundy 
may say, more especially the Grundy whose income and 
social standing somewhat surpass their own. I once 
heard a parson, who had a large income, say that he 
could not venture to put his man-servant into livery, be- 
cause the gentry in his parish would not like it I I sug- 
gested that it was no concern of the gentry how he might 
attire his servant ; that the questions to be considered 
concerned only himself, and appeared to me to be these : — * 



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 239 

1. Whether he could afford it : 

2. Whether he would like it. 

And that for myself, if I could answer these questions in 
the affirmative, I should like to see the man in my par- 
ish who would venture to interfere with what I thought 
fit to do in the matter. Not but what I believe that vul- 
gar and impertinent individuals might be found who 
would not like to see my friend approximating too closely 
tv their own magnificence ; but if there be a thing in this 
world to be decisively and instantly snubbed, it assuredly 
would be the insolence of venturing to express, in my 
friend's presence, either liking or dislike in the case. I 
have known a talking busybody, a relation of Miss Lime- 
juice, who called at the house of a family lately come to 
settle in a remote country region, to inform them that 
their dining so late as they did was regarded as pre- 
sumptuous ; and that various neighboring families felt 
aggrieved that their own dinner-hour, hitherto esteemed 
the most advanced in fashion, had been transcended by 
the new-comers. It may suffice to say, that though the 
relation of Miss Limejuice was treated with entire civility, 
she never ventured in that house to recur to that topic 
again. It is curious how rapidly it comes to be under- 
stood, whether any individual possesses that cowed and 
abject nature which permits impertinent interference in 
his private concerns, or not. The most meddlesome of 
tattling old women knows when she may venture to re- 
peat Mrs. Grundy's opinion, and when she had belter 
not. And all this without the least noisy demonstration ; 
all this with very little reference to the absolute social 
position of the person to be interfered with. It is a ques- 
tion of the nature of the animal. An eagle, you know, 
b a smaller animal than a goose ; but it is inexpedient 



240 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

to interfere with the former bird. If you have any un- 
pleasant advice to offer, stick to the goose, my friend ! 

It is worthy of notice, that in the respect of the atti- 
tude which men assume towards the world's opinion, the 
most remarkable change sometimes passes over them. 
We all know that human beings, in the course of their 
lives, go through many phases of opinion and feeling 
as to most matters : but I think there is no single 
matter in which they may exhibit extremes so far apart 
as in the matter of confidence and cowedness. You will 
find men who as school-boys were remarkable for their 
forwardness : who were always ready to start up and 
roar out an answer in their class ; and who even at 
college were pushing and confident, and quite willing 
to take a lead among their fellow-students ; but who 
ten years after leaving the university, have shrunk into 
very modest and retiring and timid men. I have known 
several cases in which this was so ; always in the case 
of men who had carried off very high honors. Doubt- 
less this loss of confidence is in some measure the result 
of growing experience^ and of the lowlier estimate of 
one's own powers which that seldom fails to bring to 
men of sense ; but I believe that it is in no small 
measure the result of a nervous system early over- 
driven, and of a mental constitution from which th. 
elasticity has been taken by too hard work, gone througl 
too soon. You know that if you put a horse in harness 
at three years old, he will, if he be a good horse, do his 
work splendidly ; but he will not do it long. At six 
years old, he will be a spiritless, broken-down creature. 
You took it out of him too soon. He is used up. And 
the cleverest young men at the universities are often like 



CONCERNIXG THE WORLD^S OPINION". 241 

the horse set to hard work at three. By the time they 
are two and twenty, you have sometimes taken out of 
them the best that will ever come. They w^ill probably 
die about middle age ; and till that time they will go 
heavily through life, wnth little of the cheerful spring. 
They will not rise to the occasion. They cannot answ^er 
the spur. They are prematurely old : weary, jaded, 
cowed. Oh that the vile system of midnight toil at the 
universities, of England and Scotland and America, were 
finally abolished ! It directly encourages many of the 
most promising of the race to mortgage their best en- 
ergies and their future years, to sustain the reckless 
expenditure of the present. It would be an invaluable 
blessing if it were made a law, inexorable as those of 
the Medes, that no honors should ever be given to any 
student who was not in bed by eleven o'clock at latest. 

It is a sad thing \Yhen any person, old or young, goes 
through his work in a cowed spirit. I do not mean, goes 
through his work in a jaded, heartless w^ay merely, but 
goes through his w^ork in the bare hope of escaping 
blame. A great part of all that is done in this world 
is done in this way. Many children, many servants, 
many clerks, and even several parsons, go through their 
daily round thus. I need not say how poorly that work 
will usuall}^ be done which the man wishes just to get 
through without any great reprobation ; but think how 
unhappily it w^ill be done, and w^hat a miserable training 
of mind and heart it is ! It seems to me that few people 
do their w^ork heartily, and really as well as they can. 
And people whose desire is merely to get through some- 
how, seem to stand to their work as at a level below it. 
The man who honestly does his best, works from above ; 
his task is below him ; he is master of it, however hard 

16 



242 CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION. 

it may be. The man who hopes no more than to escape 
censure, and who accordingly aims at nothing more, 
seems to work from below ; his task is above him ; he 
is cowed by it. Let us resolve that we shall always give 
praise when we can. You will find many people who 
are always willing to find fault with their servants, if 
their servants do anything wrong, but who never say an 
approving word- when their servants do right. You will 
find many people who do the like as to their children. 
And only too often that wretched management breaks 
the spring of the youthful spirit. Yes, many little chil- 
dren are cowed ; and the result is either a permanent 
dull quiescence, never to be got over, or a fierce reaction 
against the accursed tyranny that embittered early years 
— a reaction which may sometimes cast off entirely the 
bonds of natural affection, and even of moral restraint. 
How it encourages and cheers the cowed little fellow, 
growing up in the firm belief that he is hopelessly wick- 
ed, and never can do anything to please any one, to try 
rew^ard as a change from constant punishment and bully- 
ing ! I have seen the good effect upon such a one of the 
kind approving word. How much more cheerfully the 
work will be done ; how much better it will be done ; 
and how much happier a man he will be that does it ! 
A poor fellow who never expects that he can please, and 
who barely hopes that he may pass without censure and 
abuse, will do his task very heartlessly. Let us praise 
warmly and heartily wherever praise is deserved. And 
if we weigh the matter, we shall find that a great deal of 
hearty praise is deserved in this world on every day that 
Bhines upon it. 

May I conclude by saying, that many worthy people 



CONCEPvNIXG THE WORLD'S OPINION. 243 

go through their rehglous duties in a thoroughly cowed 
spirit? They want just to escape God's wrath — not to 
gain His kind favor. The great spring of conduct within 
them is not love, but abject terror. Truly a mistaken 
service ! You have heard of the devil-worshippers in 
India ; do you know^ why they worship the devil ? Be- 
cause they think him a very powerful being, who can do 
Ihem a mischief if they don't. Does not the w^orship 
of the Almighty, rendered in that cowed spirit, partake 
of the essential nature of devil-worship ? Let us not 
love and serve our Maker, my reader, because we are in 
fear that He will torment us if we do not. Let us hum- 
bly love and serve Him because He is so good, so kind 
to you and me, because He loved us first, and because 
we can see Him and His glory in the kindest face this 
world ever saw ! I do not think we should have been 
afraid of Jesus of Nazareth. I do not think we need 
have gone in a cowed spirit to Him. And in Him we 
have the only manifestation that is level to our under- 
standing, of the Invisible God. I think w^e could have 
gone to Him confidingly as a little child to a kind 
mother. I think we should have feared no repulse, no 
impatience, as we told to Him the story of all our sins and 
wants and cares. We can picture to ourselves, even yet, 
the kindly, sorrowful features which little children loved, 
and which drew those unsophisticated beings to gather 
round Him without a fear. Let there be deep humility, 
but nothing of that unworthy terror. You remember 
what we know on the best of all authority is the first 
and great thing we are to do. It is not to cultivate a 
cowed spirit. It is to love our Maker with heart and 
Boul and mind. 



CHAPTER IX. 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 




i^NCE upon a time, Mr. Smith, who wa3 
"^^ seven feet in height, went out for a walk 
with Mr. Brown, whose stature was three 
C&v^^>*!^^d^ feet and a half. It was in a distant age, in 
which people were dilFerent from what they are now, and 
in which events occurred such as do not usually occur in 
these days. Smith and Brown, having traversed various 
paths, and having passed several griffins, serpents, and 
mail-clad knights, came at length to a certain river. It 
was needful that they should cross it ; and the idea was 
suggested that they should cross it by wading. They 
proceeded, accordingly, to wade across ; and both arrived 
safely at the farther side. The water was exactly four 
feet deep, — not an inch more or less. On reaching the 
other bank of the river, Mr. Brown said, — 

" This is awful work ; it is no joke crossing a river 
like that I was nearly drowned." 

" Nonsense ! " replied Mr. Smith ; " why make a fu3S 
about crossing a shallow stream like this ? Why, the 
water is only four feet deep : that is nothing at all ! " 

" Nothing to you, perhaps," was the response of Mr. 
Brown, " but a serious matter for me. You observe/' 
be went on, " that water four feet deep is just six inches 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 245 

over my head. The river may be shallow to you, but it 
is deep to me." 

Mr. Smith, like many other individuals of great physi- 
cal bulk and strength, had an intellect not much adapted 
for comprehending subtile and difficult thoughts. He 
took up the ground that things are what they are in them- 
selves, and was incapable of grasping the idea that great- 
ness and littleness, depth and shallowness, are relative 
things. An altercation ensued, which resulted in threats 
on the part of Smith that he would throw Brown into the 
river ; and a coolness was occasioned between the friends 
which subsisted for several days. 

The acute mind of the reader of this page will per- 
ceive that Mr. Smith was in error ; and that the principle 
asserted by Mr. Brown was a sound and true one. It is 
unquestionable that a thing which is little to one man 
may be great to another man. And it is just as really 
and certainly great in this latter case as anything ever 
can be. And yet, many people do a thing exactly analo- 
gous to what was done by Smith. They insist that the 
water which is shallow to them shall be held to be abso- 
lutely shallow ; and that, if smaller men declare that it is 
deep to themselves, these smaller men shall be regarded 
as weak, fanciful, and mistaken. Many people, as they 
look back upon the sorrows of their own childhood, or as 
they look round upon the sorrows of existing childhood, 
think that these sorrows are or were very light and insig- 
nificant, and their causes very small. These people do 
this, because to them, as they are now, hig people, (to use 
the expressive phrase of childhood,) these sorrows would 
be light, if they should befall. But though these sorrows 
may seem light to us now, and their causes small, it is 
only as water four feet in depth was shallow to the tall 



246 CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

Mr. Smith. The same water was very deep to the man 
whose stature was three feet and a half; and the peril 
was as great to him as could have been caused by eight 
feet depth of water to the man seven feet high. The 
little cause of trouble was great to the little child. The 
little heart was as full of grief and fear and bewilder- 
ment as it could hold. 

Yes, I stand up against the common belief that child- 
hood is our happiest time. And whenever I hear grown- 
up people say that it is so, I think of Mr. Smith and the 
water four feet deep. I have always, in my heart, re- 
belled against that common delusion. I recall, as if it 
were yesterday, a day which I have left behind me more 
than twenty years. I see a large hall, the hall of a cer- 
tain educational institution, which helped to make the 
present writer what he is. It is the day of the distribu- 
tion of the prizes. The hall is crowded with little boys, 
and with the relations and friends of the little boys. 
And the chief magistrate of that ancient town, in all the 
pomp of civic majesty, has distributed the prizes. It is 
neither here nor there what honors were borne off by me ; 
though I remember well that that day was the proudest 
that ever had come in my short life. But I see the face 
and hear the voice of the kind-hearted old dignitary, who 
has now been for many years in his grave. And I recall 
especially one sentence he said, as he made a few elo- 
quent remarks at the close of the day's proceedings. 

" Ah, boys," said he, " I can tell you this is the hap- 
piest time of all your life ! " 

" Little you know about the matter," was my inward 
reply. 

I knew that our worries, fears, and sorrows were just 
as great as those of any one else. 



CONCERNIXG THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 247 

The sorrows of childhood and boyhood are not sor- 
rows of that complicated and perplexing nature which sit 
heavy on the heart in after-years ; but in relation to the 
little hearts that have to bear them, they are very over- 
whelming for the time. As has been said, great and little 
are quite relative terms. A weight which is not abso- 
lutely heavy is heavy to a weak person. We think an 
industrious flea draws a vast weight, if it draws the eighth 
part of an ounce. And I believe that the sorrows of 
childhood task the endurance of childhood as severely as 
those of manhood do the endurance of the man. Yes, we 
look back now, and we smile at them, and at the anguish 
they occasioned, because they would be no great matter 
to us now. Yet in all this we err just as Mr. Smith the 
tall man erred, in that discussion with the little man, Mr. 
Brown. Those early sorrows were great things then. 
Very bitter grief may be in a very little heart. " The 
sports of childhood," we know from Goldsmith, " satisfy 
the child." The sorrows of childhood overwhelm the 
poor little thing. I think a sympathetic reader would 
hardly read without a tear, as well as a smile, an incident 
in the early life of Patrick Fraser Tytler, recorded* in his 
biography. When five years old, he got hold of the gun 
of an elder brother and broke the spring of its lock. 
What anguish the little boy must have endured, what a 
crushing sense of having caused an irremediable evil, 
before he sat down and printed in great letters the follow- 
ing epistle to his brother, the owner of the gun : — " Oh, 
Jamie, think no more of guns, for the mainspring of that 
is broken, and my heart is broken ! " Doubtless the poor 
little fellow fancied that for all the remainder of his life 
he never could feel as he had felt before he had touched 
the unlucky weapon. And looking back over many 



218 CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

years, most of us can remember a child crushed and 
overwhehned by some trouble which it thought could 
never be got over ; and we can feel for our early self as 
though sympathizing with another being. 

What I wish in this essay is, that we should look away 
along the path we have come in life ; and that we should 
ee, that, though many cares and troubles may now press 
upon us, still we may well be content. I speak to ordi- 
nary people, whose lot has been an ordinary lot. I know 
there are exceptional cases ; but I firmly believe, that, 
as for most of us, we never have seen better days than 
these. No doubt, in the retrospect of early youth, we 
seem to see a time when the summer was brighter, the 
flowers sweeter, the snowy days of winter more cheerful, 
than we ever find them now. But, in sober sense, we 
know that it is all an illusion. It is only as the man 
travelling over the burning desert sees sparkling water 
and shady trees where he knows there is nothing but arid 
sand. 

I dare say you know that one of the acutest of living 
men has maintained that it is foolish to grieve over past 
suffering. He says, truly enough in one sense, that the 
suffering which is past is as truly non-existent as the suf- 
fering which has never been at all ; that, in fact, past 
suffering is now nothing, and is entitled to no more con- 
sideration than that to which nothing is entitled. No 
doubt, when bodily pain has ceased, it is all over : we do 
not feel it any more. And you have probably observed 
that the impression left by bodily pain passes very quick- 
ly away. The sleepless night, or the night of torm'ent 
from toothache, which seemed such a distressing reality 
while it was dragging over, looks a very shadowy thing 
the next forenoon. But it may be doubted whether you 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 249 

will ever so far succeed in overcoming the fancies and 
weaknesses of h'umanity as to get people to cease to feel 
that past sufferings and sorrows are a great part of their 
present life. The remembrance of our past hfe is a great 
part of our present life. And, indeed, the greater part 
of human suffering consists in its anticipation and in its 
recollection. It is so by the inevitable law of our being. 
It is because we are rational creatures that it is so. We 
cannot help looking forward to that which is coming, and 
looking back on that which is past ; nor can we suppress, 
as we do so, an emotion corresponding to the perception. 
There is not the least use in telling a little boy w^io know^s 
that he is to have a tooth pulled out to-morrow, that it is 
absurd in him to make himself unhappy to-night through 
the anticipation of it. You may show with irrefragable 
force of reason, that the pain will last only for the two or 
three seconds durino: which the tooth is beino; wa'enched 
from its place, and that it will be time enough to vex 
himself about the pain when he has actually to feel it. 
But the little fellow will pass but an unhappy night in 
the dismal prospect ; and by the time the cold iron lays 
hold of the tooth, he will have endured by anticipation a 
vast deal more suffering than the suffering of the actual 
operation. It is so with bigger people, looking forward 
to greater trials. And it serves no end whatever to prove 
that all this ought not to be. The question as to the 
emotions turned off in the workings of the human mind 
is one of fact. It is not how the machine ought to work, 
but how the machine does work. And as with the anti- 
cipation of suffering, so with its retrospect. The great 
grief which is past, even though its consequences no 
longer directly press upon us, casts its shadow over after- 
years. There are, indeed, some hardships and trials upon 



250 CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

which it is possible that we may look back with satisfac- 
tion. The contrast with them enhances the enjoyment 
of better days. But these trials, it seems to me, must be 
such as come through the direct intervention of Provi* 
dence ; and they must be clear of the elements of human 
cruelty or injustice. I do not believe that a man who 
was a weakly and timid boy can ever look back with 
pleasure upon the ill-usage of the brutal bully of his 
school-days, or upon the injustice of his teacher in cheat- 
ing him out of some well-earned prize. There are kinds 
of great suffering which can never be thought of without 
present suffering, so long as human nature continues what 
it is. And I believe that past sorrows are a great reality 
in our present life, and exert a great influence over our 
present life, whether for good or ill. As you may see in 
the trembling knees of some poor horse, in its drooping 
head, and spiritless paces, that it was overwrought when 
young : so, if the human soul were a thing that could be 
seen, you might discern the scars where the iron entered 
into it long ago, — you might trace not merely the endur- 
ing remembrance, but the enduring results, of the inca- 
pacity and dishonesty of teachers, the heartlessness of 
companions, and the idiotic folly and cruelty of parents. 
No, it will not do to tell us that past sufferings have 
ceased to exist, while their remembrance continues so 
vivid, and their results so great. You are not done with 
the bitter frosts of last winter, though it be summer now, 
if your blighted evergreens remain as their result and 
memorial. And the man who was brought up in an un- 
happy home in childhood will never feel that that unhap- 
py home has ceased to be a present reality, if he knows 
that its whole discipline fostered in him a spirit of distrust 
in his kind which is not yet entirely got over, and made 



COl^CERNING THE SOKROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 251 

him set himself to the work of life with a heart some- 
what soured and prematurely old. The past is a great 
reality. We are here the living embodiment of all we 
have seen and felt through all our life, — fashioned into 
our present form by millions of little touches, and by 
\ione with a more real result than the hours of sorrow 
we have known. 

One great cause of the suffering of boyhood is the 
bullying of bigger boys at school. I know nothing prac- 
tically of the English system o^ fagging at public schools, 
but I am not prepared to join out and out in the cry 
against it. I see many evils inherent in the system ; but 
I see that various advantages may result from it, too. 
To organize a recognized subordination of lesser boys to 
bigger ones must unquestionably tend to cut the ground 
from under the 'feet of the unrecognized, unauthorized, 
private bully. But J know that at large schools, where 
there is no fagging, bullying on the part of youthful 
tyrants prevails to a great degree. Human nature is 
beyond doubt fallen. The systematic cruelty of a school- 
bully to a little boy is proof enough of that, and presents 
one of the very hatefullest phases of human character. 
It is worthy of notice, that, as a general rule, the higher 
you ascend in the social scale among boys, the less of 
bullying there is to be found. Something of the chival- 
rous and the magnanimous comes out in the case of the 
sons of gentlemen : it is only among such that you will 
ever find a boy, not personally interested in the matter, 
standing up against the bully in the interest of right and 
justice. I have watched a big boy thrashing a little one, 
in the presence of half a dozen other big boys, not one 
of whom interfered on behalf of the oppressed little fel- 



252 CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

low. You may be sure I did not watch the transactiou 
longer than was necessary to ascertain whether there was 
a grain of generosity in the hulking boors ; and you may 
be sure, too, that that thrashing of the little boy w^as, to 
the big bully, one of the most unfortunate transactions 
in which he had engaged in his bestial and blackguard, 
though brief, life. 1 took care of that^ you may rely on 
it. And I favored the bully's companions with my sen- 
timents as to their conduct, with an energy of statement 
that made them sneak off, looking very like whipped 
spaniels. My friendly reader, let us never fail to stop 
a bully, when we can. And we very often can. Among 
the writer's possessions might be found by the curious 
inspector several black kid gloves, no longer fit for use, 
though apparently not very much worn. Surveying 
these integuments minutely, you would find the thumb 
of the right hand rent away, beyond the possibility 
of mending. Whence the phenomenon ? It comes of 
the writer's determined habit of stopping the bully. 
Walking along the street, or the country-road, I occa- 
sionally see a big blackguard fellow thrashing a boy 
much less than himself. I am well aware that some 
prudent individuals would pass by on the other side, 
possibly addressing an admonition to the big blackguard. 
But I approve Thomson's statement, that " prudence to 
baseness verges still ; " and I follow a different course. 
Suddenly approaching the blackguard, by a rapid move- 
ment, generally quite unforeseen by him, I take him by 
the arm, and occasionally (let me confess) by the neck, 
and shake him till his teeth rattle. This, being done 
with a new glove on the right hand, w^ill generally unfit 
that glove for further use. For the bully must be taken 
with a gripe so firm and sudden as shall serve to paralyze 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 253 

his nervous system for the time. And never once have 
I found the bully fail to prove a whimpering coward. 
The punishment is well deserved, of course ; and it is 
a terribly severe one in ordinary cases. It is a serious 
thing, in the estimation both of the bully and his com- 
panions, that he should have so behaved as to have 
drawn on himself the notice of a passer-by, and es- 
pecially of a parson. The bully is instantly cowed; 
and by a few words to any of his school-associates who 
may be near, you can render him unenviably conspicuous 
among them for a week or two. I never permit bullying 
to pass unchecked ; and so long as my strength and life 
remain, I never will. I trust you never will. If you 
could stand coolly by, and see the cruelty you could 
check, or the wrong you could right, and move no finger 
to do it, you are not the reader I want, nor the human 
being I choose to know. I hold the cautious and saga- 
cious man, who can look on at an act of bullying with- 
out stopping it and punishing it, as a worse and more 
despicable animal than the bully himself. 

Of course, you must interfere with judgment ; and 
you must follow up your interference wnth firmness. 
Don't intermeddle, like Don Quixote, in such a manner 
as to make things worse. It is only in the case of con- 
tinued and systematic cruelty that it is worth while to 
work temporary aggravation, to the end of ultimate and 
entire relief And sometimes that is unavoidable. You 
remenber how, when Moses made his application to 
Pharaoh for release to the Hebrews, the first result 
was the aggravation of their burdens. The supply of 
Btraw was cut off, and the tale of bricks was to remain 
the same as before. It could not be helped. And though 
things came right at last, the immediate consequence was 



254 CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

that the Hebrews turned in bitterness on their intending 
deliverer, and charged their aggravated sufferings upon 
him. Now, my friend, if you set yourself to the discom- 
fiture of a bully, see you do it effectually. If needful, 
follow up your first shaking. Find out his master, find 
out his parents ; let the fellow see distinctly that your 
interference is no passing fancy. Make him understand 
that you are thoroughly determined that his bullying 
shall cease. And carry out your determination un- 
flinchingly. 

I frequently see the boys of a certain large public 
school, which is attended by boys of the better class ; 
and judging from their cheerful and happy aspect, I 
judge that bullying among boys of that condition is 
becoming rare. Still, I doubt not, there yet are poor 
little nervous fellows whose school -life is embittered by 
it. I don't think any one could read the poet Cowper's 
account of how he was bullied at school, without feeling 
his blood a good deal stirred, if not entirely boiling. If 
I knew of such a case within a good many miles, I should 
stop it, though I never wore a glove again that w^as not 
split across the right palm. 

But, doubtless, the greatest cause of the sorrows of 
childhood is the mismanagement and cruelty of parents. 
You will find many parents who make favorites of some 
of their children to the neglect of others : an error and 
a sin w^hich is bitterly felt by the children who are held 
down, and which can never by possibility result in good 
to any party concerned. And there are parents who de- 
liberately lay themselves out to torment their children. 
There are two classes of parents who are the most in- 
exorably cruel and malignant : it is hard to say which 



CONCERXING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 255 

class excels, but it is certain that both classes exceed all 
ordinary mortals. One is the utterly blackguard : the 
parents about whom there is no good nor pretence of 
good. The other is the wrongheadedly conscientious and 
religious : probably, after all, there is greater rancor and 
malice about these last than about any other. These act 
upon a system of unnatural repression, and systematized 
weeding out of all enjoyment from life. These are the 
people whose very crowning act of hatred and malice 
towards any one is to pray for him, or to threaten to 
pray for him. These are the people who, if their chil- 
dren complain of their bare and joyless life, say that 
such complaints indicate a wicked heart, or Satanic 
possession ; and have recourse to further persecution to 
bring about a happier frame of mind. Yes : the wrong- 
headed and wrong-hearted religionist is probably the very 
worst type of man or woman on whom the sun looks 
down. And, oh ! how sad to think of the fashion in 
which stupid, conceited, malicious blockheads set up their 
own worst passions as the fruits of the working of the 
Blessed Spirit, and caricature, to the lasting injury of 
many a young heart, the pure and kindly rehgion of the 
Blessed Redeemer ! These are the folk who inflict sys- 
tematic and ingenious torment on their children : and, 
unhappily, a very contemptible parent can inflict much 
sufferhig on a sensitive child. But of this there is more 
to be said hereafter ; and before going on to it, let us 
think of another evil influence which darkens and embit- 
ters the early years of many. 

It is the cruelty, injustice, and incompetence of many 
schoolmasters. I know a young man of twenty-eight, 
who told me, that, when at school in a certain large city 
in Peru, (let us say,) he never went into his class any 



^2dQ concerning the sorrows of childhood. 

day without feeling quite sick with nervous terror. The 
entire class of boys lived in that state of cowed submis- 
sion to a vulgar, stupid, bullying, flogging barbarian. If 
it prevents the manners from becoming brutal diligently 
to study the ingenuous arts, it appears certain that dili- 
gently to teach them sometimes leads to a directly con- 
trary result. The bullying schoolmaster has now become 
an almost extinct animal ; but it is not very long since 
the spirit of Mr. Squeers was to be found, in its worst 
manifestations, far beyond the precincts of Dotheboys 
Hall. You would find fellows who showed a grim de- 
light in walking down a class with a cane in their hand, 
enjoying the evident fear they occasioned as they swung 
it about, occasionally coming down with a savage whack 
on some poor fellow who was doing nothing whatsoever. 
These brutal teachers would flog, and that till compelled 
to cease by pure exhaustion, not merely for moral of- 
fences, which possibly deserve it, (though I do not believe 
any one was ever made better by flogging,) but for mak- 
ing a mistake in saying a lesson, which the poor boy had 
done his best to prepare, and which was driven out of hh 
head by the fearful aspect of the truculent blackguard 
with his cane and his hoarse voice. And how indignant, 
in after-years, many a boy of the last generation must 
have been, to find that this tyrant of his childhood was 
ia truth a humbug, a har, a fool, and a sneak ! Yet ho'w 
that miserable piece of humanity was feared ! How they 
watched his eye, and laughed at the old idiot's wretched 
jokes ! I have several friends who have told me such 
stories of their school-days, that I used to wonder that 
they did not, after they became men, return to the school- 
boy spot that they might heartily shake their preceptor 
of other years, or even kick him ! 



COXCERNIMG THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 257 

If there be a thing to be wondered at, it is that the 
human race is not much worse than it is. It has not a 
fair chance. I am not thinking now of an original de- 
fect in the material provided : I am thinking only of the 
kind of handling it gets. I am thinking of the amount 
of judgment which may be found in most parents and in 
most teachers, and of the degree of honesty which may 
be found in many. I suppose there is no doubt that the 
accui^sed system of the cheap Yorkshire schools was by 
no means caricatured by Mr. Dickens in " Nicholas 
Nickleby." I believe that starvation and brutality were 
the rule at these institutions. And I do not think it says 
much for the manliness of Yorkshire men and of Yorkshire 
clergymen, that these foul dens of misery and wickedness 
were suffered to exist so long without a voice raised to let 
the world know of them. I venture to think, that, if Dr. 
Guthrie of Edinburgh had lived anywhere near Greta 
Bridge, Mr. Squeers and his compeers would have attained 
a notoriety that would have stopped their trade. I can- 
not imagine how any one, with the spirit of a man in him^ 
could sleep and wake within sight of one of these schools 
w^ithout lifting a hand or a voice to stop what was go'w^ 
on there. But without supposing these extreme cases, I 
can remember what I have myself seen of the incom- 
petence and injustice of teachers. I burn with indigna- 
tion yet, as I think of a malignant blockhead who once 
taught me for a few months. I have been at various 
schools ; and I spent six years at one venerable univer- 
sity (where my instructors were wise and worthy) ; and 
I am now so old, that I may say, without any great ex- 
hibition of vanity, that I have always kept well up among 
my school and college companions : but that blockhead 
kept me steadily at the bottom of my class, and kept a 
17 



258 COXCERNING THE SORROAVS OF CHILDHOOD. 

frightful dunce at the top of it, by his peculiar system. 
I have observed (let me say) that masters and professors 
who are stupid themselves have a great preference' for 
stupid fellows, and like to keep down clever ones. A 
professor who was himself a dunce at college, and who 
has been jobbed into his chair, being quite unfit for it, 
has a fellow-feeling for other dunces. He is at home 
with them, you see, and is not afraid that they see 
through him and despise him. The injustice of* Ihe 
malignant blockhead who w^as my early instructor, and 
who succeeded in making several months of my boyhood 
unhappy enough, was taken up and imitated by several 
lesser blockheads among the boys. I remember particu- 
larly one sneaking wretch who was occasionally set to 
mark down on a slate the names of such boys as talked in 
school ; such boys being punished by being turned to the 
bottom of their class. I remember how that sneaking 
wretch used always to mark my name down, though I 
kept perfectly silent : and how he put my name last on 
the list, that I might have to begin the lesson the very 
lowest in my form. The sneaking wretch w^as bigger 
than I, so I could not thrash him ; and any representa- 
tion I made to the malignant blockhead of a schoolmaster 
was entirely disregarded. I cannot think but with con- 
siderable ferocity, that probably there are many schools 
to-day in Britain containing a master who has taken an 
unreasonable dislike to some poor boy, and who lays 
himself out to make that poor boy unhappy. And I 
know that such may be the case where the boy is neither 
bad nor stupid. And if the school be one attended by a 
good many boys of the lower grade, there are sure to be 
several sneaky boys among them who will devote them- 
selves to tormenting the one whom the master hates and 
torments. 



OONCERXIXG THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 259 

It cannot be denied that there is a generous and mag- 
nanimous tone about the boys of a school attended ex- 
clusively by the children of the better classes, which is 
unknown among the children of uncultivated boors. I 
have observed, that, if you offer a prize to the cleverest 
and most industrious boy of a certain form in a school 
of the upper class, and propose to let the prize be de- 
cided by the votes of the boys themselves, you will al- 
most invariably find it fairly given : that is, given to the 
boy who deserves it best. If you explain, in a frank, 
manly way, to the little fellows, that, in asking each for 
whom he votes, you are asking each to say upon his 
honor whom he thinks the cleverest and most diligent 
boy in the form, nineteen boys out of twenty will an- 
swer honestly. But I have witnessed the signal failure 
of such an appeal to the honor of the bumpkins of a 
country-school. I was once present at the examination 
of such a school, and remarked carefully how the boys 
acquitted themselves. After the examination was over, 
the master proposed, very absurdly, to let the boys of 
each class vote the prize for that particular class. The 
voting began. A class of about twenty was called up : 
I explained to the boys what they were to do. I told 
them they were not to vote for the boy they liked best, 
but were to tell me faithfully who had done best in the 
class-lessons. I then asked the first boy in the line for 
whom he gave his vote. To my mortification, instead 
of voting for a little fellow who had done incomparably 
best at the examination, he gave his vote for a big sul- 
len-looking blockhead who had done conspicuously ill. 
X asked the next boy, and received the same answer. 
So all round the class : all voted for the big sullen- 
looking blockhead. One or two did not give their 



260 CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

rotes quite promptly ; and I could discern a threaten- 
ing glance cast at them by the big sullen-looking block- 
head, and an ominous clinching of the blockhead's right 
fist. I went round the class without remark ; and the 
blockhead made sure of the prize. Of course this would 
not do. The blockhead could not be suffered to get the 
prize ; and it was expedient that he should be made to 
remember the occasion on which he had sought to tam- 
per with justice and right. Addressing the blockhead, 
amid the dead silence of the school, I said : " You shall 
not get the prize, because I can judge for myself that 
you don't deserve it. I can see that you are the stupid- 
est boy in the class ; and I have seen reason, during this 
voting, to believe that you are the worst. You have 
tried to bully these boys into voting for you. Their 
voies go for nothing ; for their voting for you proves 
either that they are so stupid as to think you deserve the 
prize, or so dishonest as to say they think so when they 
don't think so." Then I inducted the blockhead into a 
seat where I could see him well, and proceeded to take 
the votes over again. I explained to the boys once more 
what they had to do ; and explained that any boy would 
be telling a lie who voted the prize unfairly. I also 
told them that I knew who deserved the prize, and that 
they knew it too, and that they had better vote fairly. 
Then, instead of saying to each boy, " For whom do 
you vote?" I said to each, "Tell me who did best 
in the class during these months past." Each boy in 
reply named the boy who really deserved the prize : 
and the little fellow got it. I need not record the means 
I adopted to prevent the sullen-looking blockhead from 
carrying out his purpose of inrashing the little fellow. 
It may suffice to say that the means were thoroughly 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 261 

effectual ; and that the blockhead was very meek and 
tractable for about six weeks after that memorable day. 

But, after all, the great cause of the sorrows of child- 
hood is unquestionably the mismanagement of parents. 
You hear a great deal about parents who spoil their 
children by excessive kindness ; but I venture to think 
tliat a greater number of children are spoiled by stupid- 
ity and cruelty on the part of their parents. You may 
find parents who, having started from a humble origin, 
have attained to wealth, and who, instead of being glad 
to think that their children are better off than they them- 
selves w^ere, exhibit a diabolical jealousy of their chil- 
dren. You will find such wretched beings insisting that 
their children shall go through needless trials and mor- 
tifications, because they themselves went through the 
like. Why, I do not hesitate to say that one of the 
thoughts which would most powerfully lead a worthy 
man to value material prosperity would be the thought 
that his boys would have a fairer and happier start in 
life than he had, and would be saved the many difiicul- 
ties on which he still looks back with pain. You will 
find parents, especially parents of the pharisaical and 
wrong-headedly religious class, who seem to hold it a 
sacred duty to make the little things unhappy ; who 
systematically endeavor to render life as bare, ugly, and 
w^retched a thing as possible ; who never praise their 
children when they do right, but punish them with great 
severity when they do wrong ; who seem to hate to see 
their children lively or cheerful in their presence ; who 
thoroughly repel all sympathy or confidence on the part 
of their children, and then mention as a proof that their 
children are possessed by the Devil, that their children 



262 CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

always like to get away from tliem ; who rejoice to cut 
off any little enjoyment, — rigidly carrying out into 
practice the fundamental principle of their creed, which 
undoubtedly is, that " nobody should ever please him- 
self, neither should anybody ever please anybody else, 
because in either case he is sure to displease God." 
No doubt, Mr. Buckle, in his second volume, caricatured 
and misrepresented the religion cf Scotland as a coun- 
try ; but he did not in the least degree caricature or 
misrepresent the religion of some people in Scotland. 
The great doctrine underlying all other doctrines, in the 
•creed of a few unfortunate beings, is, that God is spite- 
fully angry to see his creatures happy ; and of course 
the practical lesson follows, that they are following the 
best example, when they are spitefully angry to see 
their children happy. 

Then a great trouble, always pressing heavily on 
many a little mind, is that it is overtasked with lessons. 
You still see here and there idiotic parents striving to 
make infant phenomena of their children, and recording 
with much pride how their children could read and 
write at an unnaturally early age. Such parents are 
fools : not necessarily malicious fools, but fools beyond 
question. The great use to which the first six or seven 
years of life should be given is the laying the foundation 
of a healthful constitution in body and mind; and the 
instilling of those first principles of duty and religion 
which do not need to be taught out of any books. Even 
if you do not permanently injure the young brain and 
mind by prematurely overtasking them, — even if you 
do not permanently blight the bodily health and break 
the mind's cheerful spring, you gain nothing. Your 
child at fourteen years old is not a bit farther advanced 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 263 

in his education than a child who began his years aftei 
him ; and the entire result of your stupid driving has 
been to evercloud some days which should have been 
among the happiest of his life. It is a woful sight tc 
me to see the little forehead corrogated with mental 
effort, though the effort be to do no more than master 
the multiplication table : it was a sad story I lately heard 
of a little boy repeating his Latin lesson over and over 
again in the delirium of the fever of which he died, and 
saying piteously that indeed he could not do it better. 
I don't like to see a little face looking unnaturally anx- 
ious and earnest about a horrible task of spelling ; and 
even when children pass that stage, and grow up into 
school-boys who can read Thucydides and write Greek 
iambics, it is not wise in parents to stimulate a clever 
boy's anxiety to hold the first place in his class. That 
anxiety is strong enough already ; it needs rather to be 
repressed. It is bad enough even at college to work on 
late into the night ; but at school it ought not to be suf- 
fered for one moment. If a lad takes his place in his 
class every day in a state of nervous tremor, he may be 
in the way to get his gold medal, indeed ; but he is in 
the way to shatter his constitution for life. 

We all know, of course, that children are subjected to 
worse things than these. I think of little things early 
set to hard work, to add a little to their parent's scanty 
store. Yet, if it be only work, they bear it cheerfully. 
This afternoon, I was walking through a certain quiet 
street, when I saw a little child standing with a basket at 
a door. The little man looked at various passers-by ; 
and I am happy to say, that, when he saw me, he asked 
me to ring the door-bell for him : for, though he had 
been sent w ith that basket, which was not a light one, he 



261 COXCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

could not reach up to the bell. I asked him how old he 
was. '' Five years past," said the child, quite cheerfully 
and independently. '' God help you, poor little man ! " 
I thought ; "the doom of toil has fallen early upon you ! " 
If you visit much among the poor, few things will touch 
yru more than the unnatural sagacity and trustworthiness 
of children who are little more than babies. You will 
fin 1 these little things left in a bare room by themselves, 
— the eldest six years old, — while the poor mother is 
out at her work. And the eldest will reply to your ques- 
tions in a Avay that w411 astonish you, till you get accus- 
tomed to such things. I think that almost as heart-rend- 
ing a sight as you will readily see is the misery of a little 
thing who has spilt in the street the milk she was sent to 
fetch, or broken a jug, and who is sitting in despair beside 
the spilt milk or the broken fragments. Good Samaritan, 
never pass by such a sight ; bring out your twopence ; 
set things completely right : a small matter and a kind 
word will cheer and comfort an overwhelmed heart. That 
child has a truculent step-mother, or (alas !) mother, at 
home, who would punish that mishap as nothing should be 
punished but the gravest inoral delinquency. And lower 
down the scale than this, it is awful to see want, cold, 
hunger, rags, in a little child. I have seen the w^ee thing 
shuffling along the pavement in great men's shoes, hold- 
irg up its sorry tatters w^ith its hands, and casting on the 
passengers a look so eager, yet so hopeless, as went to 
one's heart. Let us thank God that there is one large 
city in the empire where you need never see such a sight, 
and where, if you do, you know how to relieve it effectu- 
ally ; and let us bless the name and the labors and the 
genius of Thomas Guthrie ! It is a sad thing to see the 
toys of such little children as I can think of. What 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 265 

curious things they are able to seek amusement in ! I 
have known a brass button at the end of a string a much 
prized possession. I have seen a grave little boj stand- 
ing by a broken chair in a bare garret, solemnly arrang- 
ing and rearranging two pins upon the broken chair. A 
machine much employed by poor children in country- 
places is a slate tied to a bit of string : this, being drawn 
along the road, constitutes a cart ; and you may find it 
attended by the admiration of the entire young popu- 
lation of three or four cottages standing in the moorland 
miles from any neighbor. 

You will not unfrequently find parents who, if they 
cannot keep back their children from some little treat, 
will try to infuse a sting into it, so as to prevent the chil- 
dren from enjoying it. They will impress on their chil- 
dren that they must be very wicked to care so much 
about going out to some children's party ; or they will 
insist that their children should return home at some pre- 
posterously early hour, so as to lose the best part of the 
fun, and so as to appear ridiculous in the eyes of their 
young companions. You will find this amiable tendency 
in people intrusted with the care of older children. I 
have heard of a man w^hose nephew lived with him, and 
lived a very cheerless life. When the season came round 
at which the lad hoped to be allowed to go and visit his 
parents, he ventured, after much hesitation, to hint this 
to his uncle. Of course the uncle felt that it was quite 
right the lad should go, but he grudged him the chance 
of the little enjoyment, and the happy thought struck him 
that he might let the lad go, and at the same time make 
the poor fellow uncomfortable in going. Accordingly he 
conveyed his permission to the lad to go by roaring out 



2G6 CONCERXIXG THE SORPwOWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

in a savage manner, " Begone ! " This made the poof 
lad feel as if it were his duty to stay, and as if it were 
very wicked in him to wish to go ; and though he uhi- 
mately w^ent, he enjoyed his visit with only half a heart. 
There are parents and guardians who take great pains 
to make their children think themselves very bad, — to 
make the little things grow up in the endurance of the 
pangs of a bad conscience. For conscience, in children, 
is a quite artificial thing: you may dictate to it what it is 
to say. And parents, often injudicious, sometimes malig- 
nant, not seldom apply hard names to their children, 
which sink down into the little heart and memory far 
more deeply than they think. If a child cannot eat fat, 
you may instil into him that it is because he is so wicked ; 
and he will believe you for a while. A favorite weapon 
in the hands of some parents, who have devoted them- 
selves diligently to making their children miserable, is to 
frequently predict to the children the remorse which they 
(the children) will feel after they (the parents) are dead. 
In such cases, it w^ould be difficult to specify the precise 
things w^hich the children are to feel remorseful about. 
It must just be, generally, because they were so wicked, 
and because they did not sufficiently believe the infalli- 
bility and impeccability of their ancestors. I am re- 
minded of the woman mentioned by Sam Weller, whose 
husband disappeared. The woman had been a fearful 
termagant ; the husband, a very inoffensive man. After 
Lis disappearance, the woman issued an advertisement, 
assuring him, that, if he returned, he w^ould be fully for- 
given ; w^hich, as Mr. Weller justly remarked, was very 
generous, seeing he had never done anything at all. 

Yes, the conscience of children is an artificial and a 
sensitive thing. The other day, a friend of mine, who is 



CONCERXIXG THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 267 

one of the kindest of parents and the most amiable of 
men, told me what happened in his house on a certain 
Fast-day. A Scotch Fast-day, you may remember, is 
the institution which so completely puzzled Mr. Buckle. 
That historian fancied that to fast means in Scotland to 
abstain from food. Had Mr. Buckle known anything 
whatever about Scotland, he would have known that a 
Scotch Fast-day means a week-day on which people go 
to church, but on which (especially in the dwellings of 
the clergy) there is a better dinner than usual. I never 
knew man or woman in all my life who on a Fast-day 
refrained from eating. And quite right, too. The growth 
of common sense has gradually abolished literal fasting. 
In a warm Oriental climate, abstinence from food may 
give the mind the preeminence over the body, and so 
leave the mind better fitted for religious duties. In our 
country, literal fasting would have just the contrary ef- 
fect ; it w^ould give the body the mastery over the soul ; 
it would make a man so physically uncomfortable that he 
could not attend with profit to his religious duties at all. 
I am aware, Anglican reader, of the defects of my coun- 
trymen ; but commend me to the average Scotchman for 
sound practical sense. But to return. These Fast-days 
are by many people observed as rigorously as the Scotch 
Sunday. On the forenoon of such a day, my friend's 
little child, three years old, came to him in much distress. 
She said, as one who had a fearful sin to confess, " I have 
been playing with my toys this morning ; " and then be- 
gan to cry as if her little heart would break. I know 
some stupid parents who w^ould have strongly encour- 
aged this needless sensitiveness ; and w^ho would thus 
have made their child unhappy at the time, and prepared 
the w^ay for an indignant bursting of these artificial tram 



268 COXCEKNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

mels when the child had grown up to maturity. But my 
friend was not of that stamp. He comforted the little 
thing, and told her, that, though it might be as well not 
to play with her toys on a Fast-day, w'hat she had done 
was nothing to cry about. I think, my reader, that, even 
if you w^ere a Scotch minister, you would appear w^ith 
considerable confidence before your Judge, if you had 
never done worse than failed to observe a Scotch Fast- 
day with the Covenanting austerity. 

But when one looks back and looks round and tries to 
reckon up the sorrow^s of childhood arising from parental 
folly, one feels that the task is endless. There are parents 
who will not suffer their children to go to the little feasts 
which children occasionally have, either on that wicked 
principle that all enjoyment is sinful, or because the chil- 
dren have recently committed some small offence, which is 
to be thus punished. There are parents who take pleas- 
ure in informing strangers, in their children's presence, 
about their children's faults, to the extreme bitterness of 
the children's hearts. There are parents who will not 
allow their children to be taught dancing, regarding danc- 
ing as sinful. The result is, that the children are aw^kward 
and unlike other children ; and when they are suffered to 
spend an evening among a number of companions who 
have all learned dancing, they suffer a keen mortification 
w^hich older people ought to be able to understand. Then 
you will find parents, possessing ample means, who will 
not dress their children like others, but send them out in 
very shabby garments. Few things cause a more painful 
sense of humiliation to a child. It is a sad sight to see a 
litth) fellow hiding round the corner when some one passes 
who is likely to recognize him, afraid to go through the 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 269 

decent streets, and creeping out of sight by back-ways, 
"We have all seen that. We have all sympathized heartily 
with the reduced widow who has it not in her power to 
dress her boy better; and we have all felt lively indigna- 
tion at the parents who had the power to attire their chil- 
dren becomingly, but whose heartless parsimony made the 
little things go about under a constant sense of painful 
degradation. 

An extremely wicked way of punishing children is by 
shutting them up in a dark place. Darkness is naturally 
fearful to human beings, and the stupid ghost-stories of 
many nurses make it especially fearful to a child. It is 
a stupid and wicked thing to send a child on an errand in 
a dark night. I do not remember passing through a 
greater trial in my youth than once walking three miles 
alone (it was not going on an errand) in the dark, along 
a road thickly shaded with trees. I was a little fellow ; 
but I got over the distance in half an hour. Part of the 
way was along the wall of a church-yard, one of those 
ghastly, weedy, neglected, accursed-looking spots where 
stupidity has done what it can to add circumstances of 
disgust and horror to the Christian's long sleep. Nobody 
ever supposed that this walk was a trial to a boy of twelve 
years old : so little are the thoughts of children under- 
stood. And children are reticent : I am telling now about 
that dismal walk for the very first time. And in the ill- 
nesses of childhood, children sometimes get very close 
and real views of death. I remember, when I was nine 
years old, how every evening, when I lay down to sleep, 
I used for about a year to picture myself lying dead, till 
I felt as thouorh the coffin were closinsj round me. I used 
to read at that period, with a curious feeling of fascina- 
tion, Blair's poem, " The Grave." But I never dreamed 



270 CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

of telling anybody about these thoughts. I believe that 
thoughtful children keep most of their thoughts to them- 
selves, and in respect of the things of which they think 
most are as profoundly alone as the Ancient Mariner in 
the Pacific. I have heard of a parent, an important mem- 
ber of a very strait sect of the Pharisees, whose child, 
when dying, begged to be buried not in a certain foul old 
hideous church-yard, but in a certain cheerful cemetery. 
This request the poor little creature made with all the 
energy of terror and despair. But the strait Pharisee 
refused the dying request, and pointed out, with polemi- 
cal bitterness, to the child, that he must be very wicked 
indeed to care at such a time where he was to be buried, 
or what might be done w^ith his body after death. How 
I should enjoy the spectacle of that unnatural, heartless, 
stupid wretch tarred and feathered ! The dying child 
was caring for a thing about which Shakespeare cared ; 
and it w^as not in mere human weakness, but " by faith," 
that " Joseph, when he was a-dying, gave commandment 
concerning his bones." 

I believe that real depression of spirits, usually the sad 
heritage of after-years, is often felt in very early youth. 
It sometimes comes of the child's belief that he must be 
very bad, because he is so frequently told that he is so. 
It sometimes comes of the child's fears, early felt, as to 
what is to become of him. His parents, possibly, with 
the good sense and kind feeling which distinguish various 
parents, have taken pains to drive it into the child, that, 
if his father should die, he will certainly starve, and may 
very probably have to become a wandering beggar. And 
these sayings have sunk deep into the little heart. I re- 
member how a friend told me that his constant wonder 
when he was twelve or thirteen years old, was this : If 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 271 

life was such a burden already, and so miserable to look 
back upon, how could he ever bear it when he had grown 
older ? 

But now, my reader, I am going to stop. I have a 
great deal more marked down to say, but the subject is 
growing so thoroughly distressing to me, as I go on, that 
I shall go on no farther. It would make me sour and 
wretched for the next week, if I were to state and illus- 
trate the varied sorrows of childhood of which I intended 
yet to speak : and if I were to talk out my heart to you 
about the people who cause these, I fear my character for 
good-nature would be gone with you for ever. " This 
genial writer," as the newspapers call me, would show but 
little geniality : I am aware, indeed, that I have already 
l:en writing in a style which, to say the least, is snap- 
pish. So I shall say nothing of the first death that comes 
in the family in our childish days, — its hurry, its confu- 
sion, its awe-struck mystery, its wonderfully vivid recall- 
ing of the words and looks of the dead ; nor of the terri- 
ble trial to a little child of being sent away from home to 
school, — the heart-sickness and the weary counting of 
the weeks and days before the time of returning home 
again. But let me say to every reader who has it in his 
power directly or indirectly to do so. Oh, do what you can 
to make children happy ! oh, seek to give that great en- 
during blessing of a happy youth ! Whatever after-life 
may prove, let there be something bright to look back 
upon in the horizon of their early time ! You may sour 
the human spirit forever, by cruelty and injustice in youth. 
There is a past suffering which exalts and purifies ; but 
this leaves only an evil result : it darkens all the world, 
iind all our views of it. Let us try to make every little 



272 CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 

child happy. The most selfish parent might try to please 
a little child, if it were only to see the fresh expression 
of unbhmted feeling, and a liveliness of pleasurable emo- 
tion which in after-years we shall never know. I do not 
believe a great English barrister is so happy when he has 
the Great Seal committed to him as two little and rather 
ragged urchins whom I saw this very afternoon. I was 
walking along a country-road, and overtook them. They 
were about live years old. I walked slower, and talked 
to them for a few minutes, and found that they were good 
boys, and went to school every day. Then I produced 
two coins of the copper coinage of Britain : one a large 
penny of ancient days, another a small penny of the pres- 
ent age. " There is a penny for each of you," I said, 
wath some solemnity : " one is large, you see, and the 
other small ; but they are each worth exactly the same. 
Go and get something good." I wish you had seen them 
go off! It is a cheap and easy thing to make a little 
heart happy. May this hand never write another essay 
if it ever wilfully miss the chance of doing so ! It is all 
quite right in after-years to be careworn and sad. We 
understand these matters ourselves. Let others bear the 
burden which we ourselves bear, and which is doubtless 
good for us. But the poor little things ! I can enter in- 
to the feeling of a kind-hearted man who told me that 
he never could look at a number of little children but the 
tears came into his eyes. How much these young crea- 
ures have to bear yet ! I think you can, as you look at 
them, in some degree understand and sympathize with 
the Redeemer, who, when he " saw a great multitude, 
was moved with compassion toward them ! " Ah, you 
smooth little face, (you may think,) I know what 
years will make of you, if they find you in this world ! 



CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 273 

Aii^ you, light little heart, will know your wxight of 
care ! 

And I remember, as I write these concluding lines, 
who they were that the Best and Kindest this world ever 
saw liked to have near Him ; and what the reason was 
He gave why , He felt most in His element when they 
were by His side. He wished to have little children 
round Him, and would not have them chidden away ; 
and this because there was something about them that 
reminded Him of the Place from which He came. He 
liked the little faces and the little voices, — He to whom 
the wisest are in understanding as children. And often- 
times, I believe, these little ones still do His work. 
Oftentimes, I believe, when the worn man is led to Him 
in childlike confidence, it is by the hand of a little child. 



18 



CHAPTER X. 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.i 




|EPUBLICANS are born, not made," saya 
.xe;| the lively author of Kaloolah ; and so, we 



^^'ftFl'ftl^ have long held, are true-blue Presbyte- 
rians. A certain preponderance of the 
sterner elements, a certain lack of capacity of emotion, 
and disregard of the influence of associations, — in brief, 
a certain hardness of character to be found only in 
Scotland, is needed to make your out-and-out follower 
of John Knox. The great mass of the educated mem- 
bers of the Church of Scotland have no pretension to 
the name of true-blue Presbyterians : Balfour of Bur- 
ley would have scouted them ; under the insidious in- 
fluence of greater enlightenment and more rapid com- 
munication, they have in many respects approximated 
sadly to " black prelacy." Dr. Candlish's book reminds 
us that out-and-out Presbyterians are still to be found 
in the northern part of this island. In arguing with 
such, we feel a peculiar difficulty. We have no ground 
in common. Things which appear to us as self-evi- 
dent axioms, they flatly deny. For instance, it appears 



1 The Organ Question: Statements by Dr. Ritchie and Dr. Porteous 
for and against the use of the Organ in Public Worship^ in the Proceed- 
ings of the Presbytery of Glasgow, 1807-8. With an introductory No- 
tice, by Robert S. Candlish, D.D. Edinburgh. 185G. 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 275 

to us just as plain as that two and two make four, that a 
church should be something essentially different in ap- 
pearance from an ordinary dwelling ; that there is a pecu- 
liar sanctity about the house of God ; that if it be fit to 
pay some respect to the birthday of the Queen, it cannot 
be wrong to pay a greater to the birthday of the Re- 
deemer ; that the worship of God should be made as 
solemn in itself as possible, and as likely as possible to 
impress the hearts of the worshippers ; that if music is 
employed in the worship of .God, it should be the best 
music to be had ; and that if there be a noble instrument 
especially adapted to the performance of sacred music, 
with something in its very tones that awes the heart and 
wakens devotional feeling, that is beyond all question 
the instrument to have in our churches. Now all this the 
true-blue Presbyterian at once denies. He holds that all 
that is required of a church is protection from the weather, 
with seat-room, and, perhaps, ventilation ; he denies that 
any solemnized feeling is produced by noble architecture, 
or that the Gothic vault is fitter for a church than for a 
factory ; he walks into church with his hat on to show he 
does not care for bricks and mortar ; he taboos Christ- 
mas-day, with all its gentle and gracious remembrances ; 
he maintains that the barest of all worship is likeliest to 
be true spiritual service ; he holds that there is some- 
thing essentially evil and sinful in the use of an organ .in 
church ; that the organ is " a portion of the trumpery which 
ignorance and superstition had foisted into the house of 
God ; " that to introduce one is to " convert a church into 
a concert-room," and " to return back to Judaism ; " and 
that " the use of instrumental music in the worship of 
God is neither lawful, nor expedient, nor edifying." ^ 
1 The Organ Question, pp. 108, 125, 128, &c. 



276 THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 

We confess that we do not know bow to argue with 
men who honestly hold these views. The things which 
they deny appear to us so perfectly plain already, that no 
argument can make them plainer. If any man say to us, 
" I don't feel in the least solemnized by the noble cathe- 
dral and the pealing anthem," all we can reply is simply, 
" Then you are different from human beings in general ;' 
but it is useless to argue with him. If you argue a thesis 
at all, you can argue it only from things less liable to dis- 
pute than itself; and in the case of all these matters 
attached to Presbytery, though not forming part of its 
essence, this is impossible. Whenever we have had an 
argument with an old impracticable Presbyterian, we 
have left off with the feeling that some people are born 
Presbyterians ; and if so, there is no use in talking to 
them. 

But all these notions to which allusion has been made, 
are attached to Presbytery by vulgar prejudice ; they 
form no part of its essence, and enlightened Presbyte- 
rians now-a-days are perfectly aware of the fact. There 
is no earthly connection in the nature of things between 
Presbyterian Church-government and flat-roofed meeting- 
houses, the abolition of the seasons of the Christian year, 
a bare and bald ritual, a vile " precentor" howling out of 
all tune, and a congregation joinins; as musically as the 
frogs in Aristophanes. The educated classes in Scotland 
have for the most part come to see this, and in Edinburgh 
and Glasgow, even among the Dissenters, we find church- 
like places of worship, decent singing, and the entire ser- 
vice conducted with propriety. And one of the marked 
signs of vanishing prejudice is, that a general wish is 
springing up for the introduction of that noble instru- 
ment, so adapted to church-music, the organ. Things 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 277 

have even gone so far that the principal ecclesiastical 
court of a considerable Scotch dissenting denomination, 
has left it to be decided by each congregation for itself, 
whether it will have an organ or not. And several dis- 
senting ministers of respectable standing and undoubted 
Presbyterianism, are pushing the matter strongly. 

We should have fancied that men of sense in North 
Britain would have been pleased to find that there is a 
prospect of the organ being generally introduced : and 
this upon the broad ground that church-music would thus 
be made more solemn, more worthy of God's worship, 
more likely to awaken devotional feeling. We should 
have fancied that there w^as no need for special pleading 
on the part of the advocates of the organ, and assuredly 
no room for lengthened argument on the part of its oppo- 
nents. The entire argument, we think, may be summed 
up thus : Whatever makes church-music more solemn 
and solemnizing is good ; the organ does this : therefore, 
let us have the organ. If a man denies our first proposi- 
tion, he is a person who cannot be reasoned with. If he 
denies the second, he has no musical taste. If he admits 
both, yet denies the conclusion, then he is either preju- 
diced or yielding to prejudice. And so the discussion 
ends. And though we do not by any means hold that the 
majority is necessarily right, still in this world we have, 
after all, no further appeal than to the mass of educated 
men, and they have decided " the organ question." We 
believe that the Scotch Church and its offshoots are the 
only Christian sects that taboo the organ. 

We should not have been surprised to find opposition 
to the organ on the part of the unreasoning crowd, who 
regard it as a rag of Popery, and whose hatred of every- 
thing prelatical is quite wonderful. But it startles us to 



278 THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 

find reasonable and educated Scotchmen maintaining that 
an organ is an idol, and that its use is not only inexpe- 
dient, but absolutely sinful and forbidden. We have read 
with considerable interest, and with great surprise, Dr. 
Candlish's publication on The Organ Question, elicited 
by *' the alarm he feels at certain recent movements on 
behalf of instrumental music in Presbyterian worship.' 
(p. 5.) His part in it is confined to an introductory essay, 
reflecting little credit upon either his logic or his taste : 
and instead of arguing the matter for himself, he prefers 
to reproduce what he regards as a complete discussion of 
the subject, in two documents, written nearly half a cen- 
tury since. The circumstances under which these were 
written are as follows : — 

In the centre of a considerable square, opening out of 
the Salt Market of Glasgow ( indissolubly associated with 
the memory of Bailie Nicol Jar vie and Rob Roy), there 
stands the elegant church of St. Andrew. It is a facsim- 
ile, on a much reduced scale, of St. Martin's-in-the-field>, 
at Charing Cross. Fifty years since, Dr. Ritchie, the in- 
cumbent of that church, in accordance with the wish of 
his entire congregation, one of the most intelligent in 
Scotland, introduced an organ. On Sunday, the 23d of 
August, 1807, the sole organ which has been used since 
the Reformation in any Scotch church i7i Scotland,^ was 
used for the first and last time. Extreme horror was 
excited among the ultra-Presbyterians. Dr. Ritchie was 
forthwith pulled up by the Presbytery of Glasgow, and 

1 Organs are not unfrequently found in Scotch churches out of Scot- 
land. The Scotch churches maintained by the East India Company at 
Calcutta, INIadras, and Bombay, are provided with organs, which are 
regularly used. The case is the same with several of the Scotch 
churches in the West Indies, and with one long established at Amster- 
dam. 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 279 

getting frightened at his own audacity, he declared at 
its meeting '* that he would not again use an organ in 
the public worship of God without the authority of the 
Church." Upon this the Presbytery passed a resolution 
to the effect " That the Presbytery are of opinion that 
the use of the organ in the public worship of God, is 
contrary to the law of the land, and to the law and con- 
stitution of our Established Church, and therefore pro- 
hibit it in all the churches and chapels within their 
bounds ; and with respect to Dr. Ritchie's conduct in this 
matter, they are satisfied with his declaration." Dr. 
Ritchie gave in a paper containing his reasons of dissent ; 
and a committee of the Presbytery prepared a reply to 
it. These two papers form the substance of the book now 
sent forth with Dr. Candlish's name. 

The commotion excited in Scotland by the introduction 
of the organ was indescribable. Dr. Ritchie was accused 
of " the monstrous crime of worshipping God by images, 
of violating the articles of the Union, of demolishing the 
barriers for the security of our religion, of committing a 
deed of perjury to ordination vows." (p. 61.) A howl of 
execration was directed against the man who had exhibit- 
ed the flagrant insolence of introducing what John Knox 
had tastefully described as a " kist fu' o' whistles." Pamph- 
lets and caricatures were numerous. Dr. Candhsh thinks 
it worth while to preserve the remembrance of a picture 
" which represents Dr. Ritchie, who was about the time 
of these proceedings translated to Edinburgh, travelling 
as a street musician, with a barrel organ strapped across 
his shoulder, and solacing himself with the good old tune, 
" ril gang nae mair to yon toun." (p. 28.) Wit and in- 
telligence appear to have been tolerably equal in Scotland 
in those days. 



280 THE ORGAN QUESTION IK SCOTLAND. 

Dr. Candlish's own sentiments are plainly enougli 
expressed. He thinks that " cogent arguments can be 
urged, both from reason and Scripture, against the prac- 
tice of using the organ." (p. 14.) He hopes that his pres- 
ent publication " will make many who have been almost 
led away by the plausibilities that are so easily got up oa 
the side of organs, pause before they lend themselves to 
what may cause a most perilous agitation." (p. 31). This 
is fair enough, because there may be prejudices in the 
mass of the Scotch people so strong that it would be 
inexpedient to shock them by introducing instrumental 
music. But Dr. Candlish goes on, in words which be- 
wilder us, to give his opinion on the essential merits of 
the question : — 

It is not that I am afraid of a controversy on this subject, or of its 
issue, so far as the merits of the question are concerned. I believe it is 
a question which touches some of the highest and deepest points of 
Christian theology. Is the temple destroyed, is the temple 'worship 
wholly superseded ? Have we, or have we not, priests and sacrifices 
among us now? Does the Old Testament itself point to anything but 
the " fruit of the lips," as the peace-offering or thank-offering of 
gospel times? Is there a trace in the New Testament of any other 
mode of praise? Foi- my part, I am persuaded that if the organ be ad- 
mitted, there is no barrier, in principle, against the sacerdotal system in 
all its fulness, — against the substitution again, in our whole religion, of 
the foi'mal for the spiritual, the symbolical for the real ! 

And then, remembering that this may offend Episcopa- 
lians, Dr. Candlish goes on offensively to say that the 
Church of England never attained light enough to reject 
the organ, and may therefore be permitted the use of a 
carnal contrivance which the more enlightened Presbyte- 
rians would be retrograding in taking up. A position at 
which the organ is retained, is wonderfully well for South- 
rons ; but would be a wretched falling oflf in the followers 
of Cameron and Renwick. 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 281 

Dr. Ritchie appears from his *' Statement " to have 
been an enlightened and educated man, somewhat in 
advance of his age, and who had miscalculated the con- 
sequences of setting up the organ. The pear was not 
ripe ; it is hardly so jet, after the lapse of fifty years. 
He adduces just such arguments in favor of instrumen- 
tal music, as Avould present themselves to any English 
mind, modified somewhat by his knowledge of the preju- 
dices of the tribunal he addressed. His statement is 
written with elegance, and temperately expressed. He 
sets out by stating that the use of instrumental music 
in worship has its foundation in the best feelings of 
human nature, prompting men to employ with rever- 
ence, according to the means they possess, all their pow- 
ers in expressing gratitude to their Creator. This use 
cannot be traced in sacred history from the time of 
Moses down to that of David: but David not only era- 
ployed instrumental music himself, but calls '*on all na- 
tions, all the earth, to praise the Lord as he did, with 
psaltery, with harp, with organ, with the voice of a 
psalm." His psalms are constantly sung in Christian 
worship ; " and can it be a sin to sing them, as w^as done 
by the original composer, with the accompaniment of an 
organ ? " Christ never found fault with instrumental 
music, neither did Paul or John ; the latter indeed tells 
us that he beheld in heaven " Harpers harping with their 
harps." During the earlier centuries, the persecutions 
to which Christians were exposed probably suffered no 
thought about a matter not essential : but the use of or- 
gans became general in the time of dawning light. At 
the Reformation it was felt that their use was no essen- 
tial part of Popery ; and thus it was retained by all the 
reformed churches, those of Luther and Calvin alike, ex- 



282 " THE ORGAN QUESTION" IN SCOTLAND. 

cept the Church of Scotland. Organs did not find favor 
in Scotland, because religious persecution had excited in 
that country a great horror of whatever had been used in 
popish or prelatical worship, as altars, crosses, organs. 
But although the organ was associated with Episcopacy, 
thei*e is no necessary connection : — 

And in the use of an organ in church during public praise, I cannot, 
for my life, after long and serious attention to the subject, discover 
even an approach to any violation either of the purity or uniformity 
of our worship. For who will or can allege that an organ is an inno- 
vation upon the great object of worship? — we all, I trust, worship the 
one God, through the one Mediator. Or upon the subject of praise ? — 
for we all sing the same psalms and paraphrases in the same language, 
all giving thanks for the same mercies. Or upon the posture of the 
worshippers? — for we all sit, as becomes Presbyterians. Or upon the 
tunes sung? — for we sing only such as are in general use. Or upon 
the office of the precentor? — for he still holds his rank, and employs 
the commanding tones of the organ for guiding the voices of the people. 
What, then, is it? It is a help, a support given to the precentor's voice, 
for enabling him more steadil}', and with more dignity, to guide the 
voice of the congregation, and thus to preserve not only uniformity, 
but that unity of voice which is so becoming in the public service, which 
so pleasingly heightens devout feelings, and prevents that discord which 
so easily distracts the attention of the worshippers. 

Such is an outline of Dr. Ritchie's argument. Our 
readers will, we doubt not, be curious to know what con- 
siderations, partaking of the nature of argument, can be 
adduced against the use of organs in church. Most peo- 
ple, we should think, w^ould be more curious to know this^ 
than to have arguments in favor of an usage for which 
common sense is authority sufficient. Now, had the 
committee of the Glasgow Presbytery assigned their 
true reason for rejecting the organ, it might have been 
very briefly set out : it was simply to be different from 
the Prelatists. A true-blue Presbyterian does not think 
of discussing the fitness of any observance on the ground 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 283 

of its own merits. He brings the matter to a shorter issue 
— viz.: Is it used in the Episcopal Church or is it not? 
If he goes beyond that, his final question would be, What 
did John Knox say about it ? His infallibility is held in 
Scotland much more strongly and practically than the 
Pope's is in Italy. If any man in a Scotch Church 
Court should venture to impugn anything that ever was 
said by the Reformer, he would draw a perfect storm of 
indignation upon his own head. We repeat, there is no 
doctrine more decidedly held in Scotland than that of the 
infallibility of John Knox. Perhaps that of the impec- 
cability of Calvin should be regarded as a companion 
doctrine. His vagaries as to the Sabbath preclude his 
reception as infallible. We have seen a paper by an 
eminent minister of a Scotch dissenting "body," whose 
purpose was to prove that Calvin was right in burnmg 
Servetus. The argument, so far as we could make it 
out, appeared to be that Calvin's doing so was right, 
because Calvin did it. Of course, had Servetus burned 
Calvin, it would have been quite a different thing. 

As for the reply to Dr. Ritchie's Statement (which was 
drawn up by a certain Dr. Porteous), we shall at once 
say of it that it appears to us characterized by ignorance, 
stupidity, and vulgarity, in the very highest degree. Dr. 
Ritchie's paper dealt with broad principles : this is mainly 
employed in paltry personalities and misrepresentations. 
Its style bristles with such descriptions of instrumental 
music as " will-worship," " superstitious rites," " convert- 
ing a church into a concert-room," " an organ tickling the 
ear of the audience " (the italics are the writer's own), 
" the puerile amusement of pipes and organs," &c. We 
shall endeavor to pick out from this very tedious lucubra- 
tion whatever it contains in the nature of argument ; and 



284 THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 

we believe that our readers will agree with us that the 
mere statement of the following objections to the organ 
is sufficient refutation of them. We give our refer- 
ences, lest we should be suspected of caricaturing Dr. 
Porteous's argument : — 

1. Instrumental music in the worship of God is as 
much part of the Jewish system as circumcision : there- 
fore, if circumcision be abolished, so is the organ, (pp. 
86-7.) Instrumental music was essentially connected 
with sacrifice ; and as sacrifice was abolished by Christ's 
death, so was instrumental music abolished, (pp. 87-8.) 
The New Testament, by prescribing a new way of wor- 
shipping God, — to wit, by singing psalms, hymns, and 
spiritual songs, — is to be understood as abolishing the 
old way, by instrumental music. (p. 91.) St. Paul, 
far from commending instrumental music, speaks of it 
with contempt — If I " have not charity, I am become 
as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbah" (p. 96.) True, 
harps are spoken of by St. John as in heaven ; but St. 
John was drawing on his recollection of the Temple 
service, and is not to be literally understood, (pp. 97-8.) 
So much for the argument from Scripture. 

2. The Christians of the early centuries would have 
had organs, had it been right to have them. As they 
had them not, " it is evident that they considered it un- 
lawful to employ instrumental music in the worship of 
God. Both Arians and orthodox would have regarded 
themselves as returning back to Judaism, if they had 
permitted it in their public worship." (p. 108.) We are 
surprised to find the Fathers quoted by a Presbyterian 
clergyman, but in this case they make in favor of his 
views. Justin Martyr says, " Plain singing is not child- 
ish, but only the singing with lifeless organs : whence 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 285 

the use of such instruments, and other things fit for chil- 
dren, is laid aside." (pp. 109-10.) Basil speaks of or- 
gans as '^ the inventions of Jubal, of the race of Cain." 
(p. 111.) Chrysostom says that instrumental music 
" was only permitted to the Jews for the imbecility and 
grossness of their souls : but now, instead of organs, 
Christians must use the body to praise God." (p. 112.) 
Jerome and Augustine speak in a similar strain. Thomas 
Aquinas, in the Schoolman age, says, " In the old law, 
God was praised both with musical instruments and 
human voices. But the Church does not use musical 
instruments to praise God, lest she should seem to ju- 
daize." (p. 115). And we are told, on the authority of 
Eckhard, that Luther (among other foolish things which 
he said) said that " organs were among the ensigns of 
Baal!'' (p. 119.) There is no doubt that Calvin de- 
clared that " Instrumental music is not fitter to be adopt- 
ed into the public worship of the Christian Church than 
the incense, the candlesticks, and the other shadows of 
the Mosaic law." (p. 121.) Our reply to all this is, that 
the Fathers, Schoolmen, and Reformers, might fall into 
error : if the question is to be decided by authority, we 
could adduce a thousand authorities in favor of the orgaa 
for every one against it ; these eminent men had no other 
grounds for forming their opinion than are patent to us, 
and it seems manifest to common sense that neither in 
reason nor Scripture are there any grounds to support 
the opinions they express. We appeal to the common 
sense of mankind, even from the judgment of Chrysos- 
fom, Aquinas, Luther, and Calvin. 

3. Dr. Porteous's next argument against the organ is, 
that the Fathers of the Scotch Church " regarded instru- 
mental music as the offspring of Judaism, and abhorred 



286 THE ORGAN' QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 

it as a relic of Popery, and too intimately connected with 
that prelatic form which our forefathers never could en- 
dure." (p. 132.) " It has been allowed by authors, for- 
eign and domestic, that the genius of the Scotch people 
is much more musical than that either of the English, 
the Dutch, or the French. But the people of Scotland 
abhor the blending of the inventions of man with the 
worship of God. They conceive instrumental music in- 
consistent with the purity of a New Testament Church." 
(p. 134.) Then "Knox and Melville, Rutherford and 
Henderson, offer not one word in behalf of the organ. 
They allow it to perish unnoticed, as a portion of that 
trumpery which ignorance and superstition had foisted 
into the house of God." (p. 140.) "The fixed, determined 
opposition to instrumental music " among the Scotch Re- 
formers " ariseth from legale political^ moral, and Scrip- 
tural grounds." (p. 140.) We admit at once that the 
founders of the Scotch Church had an inveterate dislike 
for the organ ; but as they give us no reason for their 
dislike, except the fact that the organ had been employed 
in prelatic worship, and the utterly groundless assertion 
that instrumental music was a purely Jewish observance, 
we cannot regard their dislike otherwise than as an ir- 
rational prejudice. The argument from Knox's opinion 
may be a very good one where men believe the infalli- 
bility of Knox, but with us it has no weight whatever. 
We regard ourselves quite as competent to form an 
opinion in this matter as Knox ; and the argument 
from mere authority will not do in a case where the 
authorities quoted have no special weight, and are in 
a minority of one to a hundred. 

4. The next argument is addressed exclusive to per- 
sons belonging to the Church of Scotland. At the Re- 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IX SCOTLAND. 287 

volution, " Prelacy was for ever abolished in Scotland ; ^ 
and the organ is part of Prelacy, (pp. 144-5.) The 
people, at all events, regarded it as such. (p. 145.) 
And when it was stipulated at the union of the two 
kingdoms, that the established worship should continue^ 
it was understood on all hands that this stipulation ex- 
cluded instrunaental music, (pp. 150-161.) Every cler* 
gyman at his ordination subscribes a formula, in which 
he " sincerely owns the purity of worship presently au- 
thorized and practised in this Church, and that he will 
constantly adhere to the same ; and that he will neither 
directly nor indirectly endeavor the prejudice and sub- 
version thereof." (p. 162.) But this purity of worship 
is destroyed by introducing an organ ; for " by blending 
instrumental music with the human voice, the simple 
melody of our forefathers becomes immediately changed 
into a medley, composed of animate and inanimate ob- 
jects." (p. 165.) 

We do not think any comment is needful upon all this. 
We give another passage, which we presume is intended 
for an argument : — 

Man being a reasonable creature, and a reasonable service being de- 
manded from him by God, that reasonable service cannot so properly 
be performed by man as when he useth his voice alone. This is the 
vehicle which God hath given him to convey to his Maker the emo- 
tions of his soul. Musical instruments may indeed tickle the ear and 
please the fancy of fallen man. But is God to be likened to fallen 
man? Organs are the mere invention of man, played often by hire- 
lings, who, while they modulate certain sounds, may possess a heart 
cold and hard as the nether mill-stone. You may, if you please, style 
such music the will-worship of the organist; but you surely cantot, in 
common sense, denominate it the praise of devout worshippers, ."ingiag 
with grace, and making melody to the Lord in the heart. 

The only passage in Dr. Porteous's argument which 
appears to us to partake of the nature of discussion 



288 THE OKGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 

on the merits of the question, is the following vul- 
garity : — 

Your committee have heard your amateurs and dilettanti assert that 
their nerves have been completely overcome with the powerful tones 
of the organ, and the sublime crash of instrumental music in the ora- 
torios of Handel. Your committee are willing to allow this musical 
eflect; but they believe, at the same time, that all the musical instru- 
ments that ever were used can never produce upon the devout and 
contemplative mind that sublime and pathetic effect which the well 
regulated voice of 8000 children produced, when singing the praises 
of God in the cathedral of St. Paul's, upon the recovery of our good 
old religious king. Away, then, with the cant of an organ's being so 
wonderfully calculated to increase the devotion of Christians! Your 
committee have sometimes had an opportunity of listening to instru- 
mental music, in what is stj^led cathedral worship. It might for a 
little time please and surprise by its novelty; the effect, however, was 
very transitory, and sometimes produced ideas in the mind very dif- 
ferent from devotion. Your committee believe that when the praises 
of God are sung by every individual, even of an unlettered country 
congregation, the effect is much more noble, and much more salutary 
to the mind of a Christian audience, than all the lofty artificial strains 
of an organ, extracted by a hired organist, and accompanied by a con- 
fused noise of many voices, taught at great expense to chant over what 
their hearts neither feel, nor their heads understand. 

Now, as it appears to us, this passage is the only one 
in Dr. Porteous's long treatise which touches the nierits 
of " the organ question." Plere he fairly joins issue with 
the supporters of the organ on the question whether the 
use of that instrument does or does not render God's 
praise more solemn and affecting. He maintains thai 
it does not. On the strongest of all evidence, our own 
experience, we maintain that it does. And we have no 
higher court to appeal to. We are just brought back to 
the principle with which we set out — the existence of 
two sorts or species of human constitution essentially 
different by nature. Dr. Porteous was a born Pres- 
byterian. We are not. And we can but comfort our- 



THE ORGA:Si question in SCOTLAND. 289 

selves with the belief that were the educated population 
of Christendom polled, we should be in a majority of ten 
thousand to one. We make bold to say, that were you 
to poll the educated people of Scotland, we should have 
a hundred to one in our favor. 

It will amuse our readers to know that this enlightened 
clergyman, in closing his argument, bestows a parting kick 
upon the idolatrous organ, by reminding us that we read 
in the Book of Job, that the wicked of those days " took 
the timbrel and the harp, and rejoiced at the sound of the 
organ.'' (Job, ch. xxi. v. 14, 15, p. 188.) And when 
Nebuchadnezzar erected his golden image, the signal for 
its worship was " the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, 
sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music." 
(Daniel, ch. iii. v. 3, p. 189.) What on earth can we 
say to the man who could seriously write this ? 

We have thus set forth Dr. Porteous's argument against 
the organ, an argument which Dr. Candlish tells us, 
" impressed him, when he first studied it, with the sort 
of sense of completeness which a satisfactory demonstra- 
tion gives ; and a recent perusal has not lowered his 
opinion of it." (p. 30.) For ourselves, it has impressed 
us with absolute wonder to think that any reasonable 
man could have written a treatise so filled with bigotry 
and absurdity. We could not think of setting ourselves 
to answer arguments whose folly is apparent on the first 
glance at them ; indeed, our fear is, that our readers may 
fancy we have intentionally caricatured them, and we beg 
to tender the assurance that we have set them out with 
scrupulous fairness. We lament to see that minds natur- 
ally powerful and candid can be cramped and cribbed 
by gloomy prejudices to the extent exemplified in Drs. 
Porteous and Candlish, and we confidently make our ap- 
19 



290 THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 

peal from them to the common sense of the people of 
Scotland. The great mass of educated Scotch people is 
fast becoming extricated from the vulgar prejudice against 
the organ. In every circle of polished society, the wish 
may be heard for its introduction, on the broad ground 
that it would be a great improvement, and that there is 
no reason w^hatever against it, except the prejudice of 
the first Scotch reformers against everything which had 
been used in popish or prelatic worship. The feeling 
is gaining ground in Scotland that this spirit of mere 
contrariety was allowed to go to a most unreasonable 
length. The spirit of the Covenanters w^as, " Never 
mind if kneeling be the natural posture of prayer, and 
the one we ourselves always adopt in private ; the Pre- 
latists kneel in church, and therefore we shall stand. 
Never mind if the very necessity of using the lungs 
points to standing as the attitude for singing God's 
praise : the Prelatists stand, so we shall sit." And 
there can be no question that the educated classes in 
Scotland, in laying aside the spirit of pure contrariety 
to Episcopacy, and looking at observances and estimating 
them by their own merits, are in so far departing from 
the true Presbyterian principle ; if we are to understand 
by that the principle of the gloomy fanatics who signed 
the Solemn League and Covenant, and thereby under- 
took to " endeavor the extirpation of Popery, Prelacy, 
superstition, heresy, schism, and profaneness.'' ^ No 
doubt the " Cameronians " and " Original Seceders " 
of Scotland at the present day, are a great deal more 
like the Covenanters than is the Church of Scotland. 
Holding that for many reasons Presbytery is the best 
form of church-government for Scotland, the great ma- 
1 Solemn League and Covenant^ Sectiou II. 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 291 

jority of the clergy of the Scotch Church are equally 
persuaded that Episcopacy is the best form of church- 
government for England. And very many of the most 
influential among the elders of the Church of Scotland, 
say at once that they are Presbyterians in Scotland 
and Episcopalians in England. It would indeed be a 
wretched thing, if in days not over-friendly to eccle- 
siastical establishments, the Churches of England and 
Scotland, maintaining precisely the same doctrines, and 
differing solely in the non-essential of church-govern- 
ment, should ever cherish other than a spirit of mutual 
kindness and mutual support. 

At the same time, it will take another century of rail- 
way communication and intercourse with England to rub 
off the horror of Prelacy and all its belongings which 
exists among the humble classes — at least, in country- 
places. A cross over the gable of a church, or a win- 
dow of stained glass, must still be introduced, in country- 
parishes, with great caution. We observe from a Scotch 
newspaper, that a country clergyman, within the last 
six months, introduced a choir of trained singers into 
his church, in the hope of improving the psalmody. 
Whenever the choir began the psalm, most of the con- 
gregation closed their books, and refused to join in the 
singing, and many rose and left the church. A choir 
was introduced in the parish church of a considerable 
town in the north of Scotland. Some of the people lis- 
tened in wonder to its first notes, and then hurried out 
to escape the profanation, exclaiming, " They'll be bring- 
ing o'er the Pope next ! " If a country minister wishes 
his precentor or clerk to appear in a gown and a white 
aeckcloth, instead of entering the desk in a sky-blue coat 
and scarlet wai.-tcoat, some of his parishioners are sure 



292 THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 

to trace in the arrangement an undue leaning towards 
Episcopacy. The minister of a remote parish was pre- 
sented with a pulpit gown by his people. The people 
naturally expected to see it next Sunday, and a larger 
congregation came to see the gow^n than would have 
assembled to hear the sermon. The minister, however, 
wore no gown. Some of the chief contributors to its 
expense called at the manse, to express the hope of the 
parish that the gown might be worn. 

" I cannot wear it," said the minister ; " it is too large 
for me." 

" Too large ! " was the reply ; ^' it fits elegantly.** 

Upon w4iich the enlightened and cultivated gentleman 
answered — 

" No, it is far too large : the tail of it reaches a' the 
way to Rome ! " 

No doubt this man would have judged an organ a 
blasphemous, Satanic, Jewish, Popish, and Prelatic de- 
vice. But we do not believe that at the present day 
such a person could be found among the clergy of the 
farthest presbytery of the Hebrides. 

We do not think that the time has come for the gen- 
eral introduction of the organ in Scotland. There is no 
use in running in the face of the prejudices of a whole 
people ; and while the opponents of the organ regard 
the question as one of principle, its supporters cannot 
regard the organ as more than a luxury. It is a step 
in advance that there should be in Scotland such a 
thing as " The Organ Question." The matter is now in 
debate : at one time the Presbyterian who raised it 
would have been knocked on the head. With the in- 
creasing enlightenment of the age, and the rapid com- 
munication that now exists between this country and 



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 293 

Scotland, it is a mere matter of time till the organ 
shall be employed wherever its expense can be afforded; 
It would be highly inexpedient to press it upon the peo- 
ple now. It would retard the period of its general re- 
ception. All that can be looked for at present is, that 
permission should be granted to each congregation to act 
upon its own judgment in the matter of the organ. It 
will be introduced first in the churches in the fashion- 
able parts of Edinburgh and Glasgow, next in country 
parishes where the squire has been educated at Oxford, 
and ultimately, we doubt not, it will excite as little 
wonder in Scotland as it does in England now. The 
tide is flowing surely. But we shall not live to see 
that time. 

Half-material beings as we are, and often the worse 
for the material things which surround us — which by 
their very solidity make spiritual things seem shadowy 
and unreal in the comparison — it is well when we can 
make (so to speak) a reprisal on the hostile territory, 
and get a material thing to conduce to our spiritual ad- 
vantage. We cannot but think that in all the reason- 
ings of ultra-Presbyterians on the immorality of organs, 
there is woven a thread of the old Gnostic heresy of the 
essential evil of matter ; as though the same God who 
made our spirits capable of being impressed, had not 
made the material sights and sounds which are capable 
of impressing them. We are not afraid to argue " The 
Organ Question" with Dr. Candlish on the highest and 
farthest-reaching grounds, though we think it quite suf- 
ficiently decided by the ready appeal to common sense. 
But what greater harm is there in using the organ's 
notes to waken pious thought and feeling, than in learn- 
ing a lesson of our decay from the material emblem of 



294 THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND. 

the fading leaf, or from the lapse of the passing river ? 
If it be not wrong to avail ourselves of the natural pen- 
siveness of the departing light, and to go forth like Isaac 
in the eventide to meditate upon our most solemn con- 
cerns, — why is it sinful or degrading to turn to use the 
native power which the Creator has set in the organ s 
tones to stir tender and holy emotion ? When we can 
get the Material to yield us any impulse upward, in 
God's name let us take its aid and be thankful ! And 
as Dr. Candlish likes authorities, we shall conclude with 
a better authority than that of Dr. Porteous. He tells 
us that the organ may " tickle the ear," but denies its 
power to touch the heart. Milton thought otherwise : 
and we believe that his words describe the normal influ- 
ence of the organ on the healthy human mind : — 

But let my due feet never fail 

To walk the studious cloister's pale; 

And love the high embowered roof, 

With antique pillars massy proof, 

And storied windows richly dight, 

Casting a dim religious light; 

There let the pealing organ blow 

To the full-voiced quire below, 

In service high and anthems clear. 

As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 

Dissolve me into ecstasies. 

And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 




CHAPTER XL 

THORNDALE; OR, THE CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.^ 

MM^^ UTHORS, moral and political, have of late 
years been recognizing the fact, that abstract 
truths become much more generally attrac- 
3 tive when something of human interest is 
added to them. Most people feel as if thoughts and 
opinions gain a more substantial being, and lose their 
ghost-like intangibility, when we know something of the 
character and history of the man who entertained them, 
and something of the outward scenery amid which he 
entertained them. Very many persons feel as if, in pass- 
ing from fact, or what purports to be fact, to principle, 
they were exchanging the firm footing of soHd land for 
the yielding and impalpable air ; and a framework of 
scenes and persons is like a wing to buoy them up in 
traversing that unaccustomed medium. And there are 
few indeed to whom a pecuhar interest does not result 
when views and opinions, instead of standing nakedly on 
the printed page, are stated and discussed in friendly 
council by individual men, seated upon a real grassy 
slope, canopied by substantial trees, and commanding a 
prospect of real hills, and streams, and valleys. It is not 
entirely true that argument has its weight and force in 

1 Thorndale; or, the Conflict of Opinions. By William Smith. Ed- 
inburgh: Blackwoods. 1857. 



296 THORNDALE ; OR, THE 

itself, quite apart from its author. In the matter of prac- 
tical effect, on actual human beings, a good deal depends 
on the lips it comes from. 

The author of "Thorndale" has recognized and acted 
upon this principle. Mr. William Smith is a philosopher 
and a poet, as the readers of his tragedy, " Athelwold," 
are already aware ; and whoever sits down to read his 
now book as an ordinary w^ork of fiction to be hurried 
through for its plot-interest, will probably not turn many 
pages before closing the volume. The great purpose of 
the work is to set out a variety of opinions upon several 
matters which concern the highest interests of the individ- 
ual man and of the human race ; but instead of present- 
ing them in naked abstractness, Mr. Smith has set them 
in a slight story, and given them as the tenets or the fan- 
cies of different men, whose characters are so draw^n that 
these tenets and fancies appear to be just their natural 
culmination and result. If we were disposed to be hyper- 
critical, we might say that the different characters sketched 
by Mr. Smith are too plainly built up to serve as the sub- 
strata of the opinions which they express. There is 
hardly allow^ance enough made for the waywardness and 
inconsistency of human conclusion and action. Given 
any one of Mr. Smith's men in certain circumstances, 
and we are only too sure of what he will do or say. The 
Utopian is always hopeful ; the desponding philosopher 
is never brightened up by a ray of hope. But this, it is 
obvious, is a result arrived at upon system ; for we shall 
find abundant proof in the volume that Mr. Smith has 
read deeply and accurately into human nature, in all its 
weaknesses, fancies, hopes, and fears. It is long since 
we have met with a more remarkable or worthy book. 
Ml*. Smith is always thoughtful and suggestive : he has 



CONFi.CT OF OPINIONS. 297 

been entirely successful in carrying out his wish to pro- 
duce a volume in reading which a thoughtful man will 
often pause with his finger between the leaves, and muse 
upon what he has read. We judge that the book must 
have been written slowly, and at intervals, from its afflu- 
ence of beautiful thought. No mind could have tjrned 
off such material with the equable flow of a stream. We 
know few works in which there may be found so many 
fine thoughts, light-bringing illustrations, and happy turns 
of expression, to invite the reader's pencil. A delicate 
refinement, a simple and pathetic eloquence, a kindly 
sympathy with all sentient things, are everywhere appar- 
ent : but the construction of the book, in which the most 
opposite opinions are expressed by the different charac- 
ters without the least editorial comment, approval or dis- 
approval, renders it difficult to judge what are truly the 
opinions of the author himself. Mr. Smith's English 
style is of classic beauty : nothing can surpass the deli- 
cate grace and finish of many passages of description and 
reflection ; and although it was of course impossible, and 
indeed not desirable, that equal pains should be bestowed 
upon the melody of all the pages of the book, still the 
language is never slovenly ; the hand of the tasteful 
scholar is everywhere. Nor should we fail to remark 
the author's versatility of power. Everything he does is 
done with equal ease and felicity : — description of exter- 
nal nature, analysis of feeling and motive, close logic, 
large views of men and things. There is not the gentle 
and graceful humor of Mr. Helps : the book is serious 
throughout, with no infusion of playfulness. The author 
evidently thinks that in this world there is not much to 
smile at, — unless it be at everything. Let us remark, 
that in this volume the characters come and go as in real 



298 THORNDALE ; OR, THE 

life. There is nothing of the novel's artificial working 
up of interest, deepening to the close. Mr. Smith may 
say of his book, as Mr. Bailey of his grand but unequal 
poem ; — 

" It has a plan, but no plot: — Life has none." 

But Mr. Smith's men, after all, are not such as one 
commonly meets. They are all greatly occupied, and 
for the most part perplexed and distressed about specu- 
lative and social difficulties. Now in ordinary life such 
distresses are little felt. Are we wrong in saying that 
they are never felt at all, except in idleness ; — or by 
minds far above the average of the race ? How little 
are the perplexities of speculation to the busy man, anx- 
ious and toiling to find the means of maintaining his wife 
and children, of paying his Christmas bills, and generally 
of making the ends meet at the close of the year ! Thaty 
whether we admit the fact or deny it, is, with the great 
majority even of cultivated men, the practical problem 
of life. And indeed it is sad to think how, long before 
middle age, in many a man who started with higher aspi- 
rations, that becomes the great end of labor and of thought. 
But it seems to be a law of mind, that as the grosser and 
more material wants are supplied, other wants of a more 
ethereal and fanciful nature come to be felt. And thus 
perhaps many a man, whom circumstances now compel 
to bestow all his energies on the quest of the supply of 
the day that is passing over him and his, is by those very 
circumstances saved from feeling wants more crushing, 
and from grappling with riddles and mysteries that sit 
with a heavy perplexity upon the heart. Let us be 
thankful if we are not too independent of work : let us 
be thankful that we are not too thouojhtful and able. 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 299 

Mr. Smith's book sets out with a charming description 

of a secluded dwelling to which a young philosophic 

thinker, smitten by consumption, had retired to die. On 

a little terrace, near the summit of Mount Posilipo, there 

stands a retired villa, looking from that height over the 

Bay of Naples. Overlooked by none, it commands a 

wide extent of view. Myrtle and roses have overgrown 

its pillared front. The rock descends sheer down from 

the terrace. Charles Thorndale, the hero of the book, 

had been charmed by the Villa Scarpa in the course of 

a continental tour, made while still in health; and when 

stricken with the disease of which he died, and when 

the physicians spoke of the climate of Italy, he chose 

this for his last retreat. It would not be long he would 

be there, he knew ; and in its quiet he had much to 

think of. 

It is a spot, one would say, in which it would be very hard to part 
with this divine faculty of thought. It seems made for the very spirit 
of meditation. The little platform on which the villa stands is so sit- 
uated, that, while it commands the most extensive prospect imaginable, 
it is itself entirely sheltered from observation. No house of any kind 
overlooks it; from no road is it visible; not a sound from the neighbor- 
ing city ascends to it. From one part of the parapet that bounds the 
terrace you may sometimes catch sight of a swarthy, bare-legged fish- 
erman, sauntering on the beach, or lying at full length in the sun. It 
is the only specimen of humanity you are likely to behold: you live 
solely in the eye of nature. It is with difiiculty you can believe that 
within the space of an hour you may, if you choose it, be elbowing 
your way, jostled and stunned, amongst the swarming population of 
Naples — surely the noisest hive of human beings anywhere to be 
found on the face of the earth. Here, on these heights, is perfect still- 
ness, with perfect beauty. What voices come to you from the upper 
air — the winds and the melody of birds; and not unfrequently the 
graceful sea-gull utters its short, plaintive cry, as it wheels round and 
oack to its own ocean-fields. And then that glorious silent picture for 
ever open to the eye ! Picture ! you hastilj^ retract the word. It is 
no dead picture ; it is the living spirit of the universe manifesting itself, 
in glorious vision, to the eye and the soul of man. 



300 THORNDALE; OR, THE 

Thorndale was a studious man, but had not been at- 
tracted by either of the learned professions. His modest 
competency relieved him from the necessity of choosing 
a decided path in life. Like many meditative idlers, he 
intended, vaguely, to write a book ; and, indeed, he did 
finish a philosophical treatise more than once ; but he 
always became dissatisfied with it and destroyed it. But 
in his retirement at Villa Scarpa, a large manuscript vol- 
ume lay on his table, in which, " the habit of the pen " 
clinging to him to the last, he was accustomed to write 
down his thoughts upon whatever topic interested him for 
the time. This book was autobiography, essay, diary, 
record of former conversations with friends, as the humor 
of the moment prompted ; and we are invited to believe 
that this book, having fallen into the hands of Mr. Smith, 
is now given to the world : — 

It is precisely this manuscript volume, note-book, memoir, diary, 
whatever it should be called, which we have to present to the reader. 
In it, Thorndale, though apparently with little of set purpose or de- 
sign, gives us a description of himself and of several friends, or rather 
Bketches out their opinions and modes of thinking. Amongst these two 
may be at once particularly mentioned: Clarence^ who might be called 
a representative of the philosophy of hope; and SecJcendorf^ his com- 
plete contrast, and who, especially on the subject of human progress, 
takes the side of denial or of cavil. 

The author, or editor, sets before us the character of 
his hero, less by one complete description, than by many 
touches, given here and there, as he exhibits Thorndale to 
us in various combinations of circumstances, and at sev- 
eral critical points in his life. Our impression of Thorn- 
dale is being retouched, modified, lightened, and shadowed, 
on to the close of the book. He was a meditative and 
melancholy man, of little pith or active energy : he was 
ehy and retiring ; overshadowed by a settled despond- 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 801 

encj ; but always kind and gentle, with no trace of fret 
fulness or irritability. Although his character is an in 
teresting and truthful one, it is essentially morbid ; and 
we may be glad that men like him must always be 
few. We should have no railroads, no Great Easterns, 
no ocean telegraphs, in a world peopled by Thorndales. 
The weakly physical constitution which he bore from 
birth, had much to do with the tone of his thought and 
feeling. The remark is in the main just and sound, 
though it was made by Boswell : — 

The truth is, that we judge of the happiness and misery of life dif- 
ferently at different times, according to the state of our changeable 
frame. I always remember a remark made to me by a Turkish lady 
educated in France: Mafoi^ r.ionsieur^ notre bonheur depend de la f agon 
que notre sang circule. 

Nor ought we to forget that deeply philosophic remark 
of Sydney Smith, that little stoppages in the bodily cir- 
culation are the things which, above all* others, darken 
our views of life and of man. A friend, said the genial 
physiologist, comes to him in a most depressed condition. 
He declares that his affairs are getting embarrassed ; that 
he must retrench his establishment and retire to the coun- 
try ; that his daughter's cough has settled upon the lungs ; 
that his wufe is breaking up, and his son going to the mis- 
chief. But Sydney only asks on what he supped the 
evening before ; and finds that he then partook of lob- 
ster to an undue degree. "^ All this," he says, " all these 
gloomy views are the lobster." Instead of seeking di- 
rectly to minister to a mind diseased, he does so indi- 
rectly, but not the less effectually. He suggests medicine, 
not philosophy. And next day the world is a capital 
world, after all ; the income is ample, the cough is gone, 
the wife is in rude health, and the son all that a father's 



302 THORNDALE; OR, THE 

heart could wish. Now in the case of Thorndale, there 
was an entire deficiency of healthy animalism ; and if, 
as a Scotch divine lately declared in a sermon published 
by royal command, it is easier for a camel to go through 
the eye of a needle than for a dyspeptic man to be kind, 
gentle, and long-suffering ; not less true is it that a well- 
knit, vigorous, sinewy mind, is oftentimes trammelled and 
hampered all through life, by being linked to a w^eakly, 
puny, jaded body. How much of Sydney Smith's wit, 
how much of Christopher North's reckless abandonment 
of glee, was the result of physical organization ! How 
incomprehensible to many men must such despondency 
as Thorndale's seem ! No worldly w^ants or anxieties, 
no burden of remorse, kind friends around him, w^iat 
right had he to be unhappy?^ Thorndale, in short, is a 
less energetic and passionate form of the nameless hero 
of Maud, Shall we confess that a less happy association 
at certain points in his history suggested itself to our 
mind? AVe thought of Mr. Augustus Moddle, of whom 
his historian records as follows : — 

He often informed Mrs. Todgers that the sun had set upon him; that 
the billows had rolled over him ; that the car of Juggernaut had crushed 
him ; and also that the deadly upas tree of Java had blighted him.2 

Young men, who at five-and-twenty profess that they 
have lost all interest in life, and that they have done with 
time, are by no means uncommon. But Byron's influ- 

1 We remember a review of Maud which we read in a certain pro- 
YiQcial journal. The writer evidently thought the gloomy hero an 
ungrateful and querulous fellow for making such a moan. "Why,** 
said the reviewer, "the man was in very comfortable circumstances: 
he was able to have two servants {'• I keep but a man and a maid' )\ 
and what earthly right had he to be always grumbling V U a man 
has two servants, ought he not to be content? " 

2 Dickens's Martin Chuzzlewii, 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 303 

ence is wearing out ; and they are pretty generally 
laughed at. Yet where a lad at college can say sin* 
cerely, as Thorndale said — 

For me, there was more excitement to be got out of any dingy book^ 
thumbed over by a solitary rushlight, than from fifty ball-rooms — 

his mind is taking a morbid growth, which bodes no good 
to himself; nor are things better when he goes on a tour 
to the Cumberland lakes, and instead of cheerfully enjoy- 
ing the scenes around him, goes on as follows : — 

Forgetful of lake and mountain, my eyes fixed perhaps on the top- 
most bar of some roadside gate which I had intended to open, or paus- 
ing stock-still before some hedgerow in the solitary lane, apparently 
intent upon the buds of the hawthorn, as if I were penetrating into the 
ver}^ secrets of vegetable life, I have stood for hours musing on the 
intricate problems which our social condition presents to us. 

We need not say that such a man is out of his place 
in England in the nineteenth century. In this age we 
want, not visionaries, but actors ; healthy, robust men, 
like Arnold, who can think and reason, and who can 
likewise walk five miles in the hour. Perhaps, indeed, 
the cry for " muscular Christianity " is passing into cant ; 
and we know of noble minds which, notwithstanding the 
clog of physical debility and suffering, bear a kindly sym- 
pathy towards all mankind, and make the race their 
debtors for the gift of elevating thoughts. But as for 
Thorndale — sensitive as the mimosa, ever w^atching with 
introverted eye the lights and shadows of his own mind 
— how could he be happy ? A certain amount of insen- 
sibility is in this world needful to that. We must not 
bear a nervous system so delicately appreciative of ex- 
ternal influences as to keep us ever on the flutter or on 
the rack. Above all, let us have the equable mind, 
though it should live in a light which is uniformly sub- 



304 THORNDALE; OR, THE 

dued, rather than that which is ever alternating between 
April sunshine and April gloom. Justly and thought- 
fully did Wordsworth make this equanimity a marked 
characteristic of the happiness of a higher life : — 

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel, 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure: 
No fears to beat away, no strife to heal, 
The past unsighed for, and the future sure : 
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
Revived, with finer harmony pursued.^ 

We may have faults to find with the character of 
Thorndale, regarded as that of a representative man : 
but we feel at once with what delicate accuracy the 
author maintains its keeping. From first to last, he 
never speaks or acts otherwise than he ought, under 
the given conditions. The malady that killed him 
had marked him from his birth; and he is always the 
same kindly, tender-hearted, meditative, unenergetic, 
spiritless being. Mr. Smith shows us the whole man 
by one happy touch. Thorndale had chosen the shores 
of Loch Lomond as his autumn retreat one year. He 
had been there only a day, when he suddenly resolved 
that he would return and seek the hand of a gentle 
cousin whom he loved, and who appears not to have 
been indiflferent to him. He had hitherto kept silence, 
because her worldly position was higher than his own. 
He left Loch Lomond on the instant ; he travelled on day 
and night ; he seemed never to have drawn breath till 
he stood at the gate of the shrubbery that surrounded 
Sutton Manor, her home and his : — 

Then indeed I paused. Leaning on the half-opened gate, I saw 
again my own position in its true and natural light. Was it not al- 

1 Laodamia. 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 305 

ways known and understood that such a thing was not to he ? One 
after the other, all my fallacious reasonings deserted me. What mad- 
ness could have brought me there? I hoped no one had seen me. 
Slowly and softly the half-opened gate was closed again. I walked 
away, retracing my steps as unobserved as possible through the vil- 
lage. 

Here was Thorndale himself. Like most thoughtful 
men, he had much of the irresolution of Hamlet, — the 
irresolution that comes of thinking too much. There can 
be no doubt that in order to act slap-dash, with prompt- 
ness and decision, it is best not to see a case in all 
its bearings. It is best to see one side clearly and 
strongly: — and then no lurking irresolution will retard 
the arm in its descent. Here was the secret of poor 
Thorndale's creeping away, with a sinking heart, from 
the only presence he cared for in this world. There is 
not invariable truth in the lines of Montrose, — 

He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his desert is small, 
"Who dares not put it to the touch, 

And win or lose it all. 

We need not relate how the author explains his chanc- 
ing upon Villa Scarpa in wandering about Naples. The 
villa was then deserted ; all was over. We have no 
particulars recorded of Thorndale's death. We confess 
we feel in this omission something of cruelty on the 
author's part towards his hero. There is something 
pitiful in the story of the neglected manuscript-volume, 
found after the poor visionary was gone, hidden away in 
the roof of the abandoned house ; and in the picture 
which rises before us of the tender-hearted youth, lying 
down to die alone. He had a kind servant, indeed ; and 
an old friend, with his little adopted daughter, who re- 
appeared as evening was darkening down, may be sup- 
20 



306 THORXDALE; OR, THE 

posed to have tended and soothed the last agony. But 
Mr. Smith, in his careful avoidance of whatever might 
Beem a clap-trap expedient to excite interest and feehng, 
is entirely silent as to the close. However, he chanced 
on the deserted Villa Scarpa : he found a despatch-box, 
bearing the name of Charles Thorndale, whom he had 
known, though not intimately. This despatch-box cou- 
liined the manuscript volume already mentioned, which 
Thorndale seemed to have bequeathed to the first finder 
and the o^ood-natured Italian to whom the villa belonofed, 
willingly gave up box and manuscript to one who said 
he had been Thorndale's friend. We quote a single sen- 
tence, for its graceful beauty, from the picture of Thorn- 
dale called up to the mind's eye of his editor, on thus 
chancing on his last retreat : — 

His eye was not that of which it is so often said that it looks through 
you, for it rather seemed to be looking out beyond you. The object 
at which it gazed became the half-forgotten centre round which the 
eddying stream of thought was flowing; and you stood there, like 
some islet in a river which is encircled on all sides by the swift and 
silent flood. 

The manuscript volume now published has been di- 
vided by its editor into five books, and each of these 
into several chapters. Book I. is called " The Last Re- 
treat :" it is given to many reflections, mostly thrown out 
with little arrangement, upon the Sentiment of Beauty, 
and upon the two Futurities, the one on this side and tho 
other beyond the grave. In Book IL, which is called 
" The Retrospect," the current of thought has set away 
into the past ; and we have an autobiographical sketch. 
Book III., called *' Cyril, or the Modern Cistercian," 
gives an account of the conflict of thought by which a 
companion passed from an Evangelical Anglican to a 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 307 

Roman Catholic monk. Book IV., " Seckendorf, or the 
Spirit of Denial," sketches the character and views of 
a friend who cavilled at the possibility of all human 
progress. In Book Y., " Clarence, or the Utopian," we 
first read how, as strength and life had well-nigh ebbed 
away, Thorndale met once more with an old friend of 
hopeful views, who seems to have stayed by him to 
tho. last: and when Thorndale's weak hand had laid 
down the pen for the last time, Clarence wrote out, in 
the last two hundred pages of the volume, his Confessio 
Fidel; — a connected view of his theory of man, the 
growth of the individual consciousness, and the develop- 
ment of the human race. 

The earlier part of the book is very desultory ; and 
the book as a whole appeals to a limited class of readers. 
There will never be a rush for it to the book-club in the 
county town. Young-lady readers will for the most part 
vote it a bore ; and solid old gentlemen of bread-and- 
butter intellect will judge Thorndale and his friends a 
crew of morbid dreamers, — though the book, amid sub- 
limer speculations, sets out here and there much common 
sense' on the affairs of practical life. But we trust that 
Mr. Smith may find an audience fit, and not so few. It 
elevates and refines the mind to hold converse with an 
author of his stamp. And how much the world must 
have gone through before such a character as Thorn- 
dale's became possible ! No appliance of modern lux- 
ury, no contrivance of modern science, says so much as 
the conception of such a character for the civilization 
and artificiality of our modern life. Although the book 
is mainly dissertational, the reader will find in it much ex- 
quisite narrative, and much skilful delineation of charac- 
ter, in the history of the hero and his friends, their views 



308 THORNDALE; OR, THE 

and fates. Yet, while we cordially acknowledge in Mr 
Smith a man of refined and pathetic genius, we should 
not be doing justice to ourselves if we did not say, that 
in all the views of hfe and society, whether hopeful or 
desponding, which are set out in the book, we have felt 
strongly a great blank and void. We believe, and we 
humbly hope we shall never cease believing, that Chris- 
tianity shows us the true stand-point from which to look 
at man, and the true lever by which to elevate him. 
We believe that the same influence which has raised our 
hopes to "life and immortality,'* must and will elevate 
and purify this mortal life. We believe that it is false 
philosophy to ignore the existence, power, and teaching 
of the Christian faith ; and to take pains, before looking 
into the framework and the prospects of society, to ex- 
clude the only light which can search out the dark re- 
cesses, and dissipate the gloom that hangs before. Why 
should a man persist in wading through Chat Moss on a 
drenching December day, when the means are provided 
of flitting over it, light and warm and dry ? Why should 
we go up to Box-hill, and declare we shall dig our way 
through it with our own nails and fingers (being in 
haste) ; when we know that it has been nobly tunnelled 
for us already ? 

The first book, entitled " The Last Eetreat," consists 
of disjointed fragments of thought, cast upon the page 
with little effort at arrangement. All these fragments 
are well worthy of preservation : many of them are of 
striking originality and force. The dying man becomes 
aware that a peculiar beauty has been added to the beau- 
tiful scenes around him by the close approach of death 
He says, — 



CONFLICT OF OPIXIONS. 809 

I owe to death half the beauty of this scene, and altogether owe to 
him the constant serenity with which I gaze upon it. . . . Strange : 
how the beauty and mystery of all nature is heightened by the near 
prospect of that coming darkness which will sweep it all away ! — that 
night which will have no star in it! These heavens, with all their 
glories, will soon be blotted out for me. The eye, and that which is 
behind the eye will soon close, soon rest, and there will be no more 
beauty, no more mystery for me. . . . What an air of freshness, of 
novelty, and surprise, does each old and familiar object assume to me 
when I think of parting with it for ever ! 

There is no more of ennui now. Time is too short, and this world 
too wonderful. Everything T behold is new and strange. If a dog 
looks up at me in the face, I startle at his intelligence. " I am in a 
foreign land," you say. True, all the world has become foreign land 
to me. I am perpetually on a voyage of discovery. 

Very true, very real, is this feeling, drawn from the 
much-suggesting Ni;f yap epx^rac I We really do enjoy 
things intensely, because we know we are not to have 
them long. And how well does experience certify that 
the most familiar scene grows new and strange to us 
when we are forthwith to leave it. The room in which 
we have sat day by day for years, — rise to quit it for 
the last time, and we shall see something about its pro- 
portions, its aspect, that we never saw before. The little 
walk we have paced hundreds of times, — how different 
every evergreen beside it will seem, when we pace it 
silently, knowing that we shall do so no more! 

Here is an apt and happy comparison : — 

When the lofty and barren mountain, says a legend I have some- 
where read, was tirst upheaved into the sky, and from its elevation 
looked down on the plains below, and saw the valley and the less 
elevated hills covered with verdure and fruitful trees, it sent up to 
Brahma something like a murmur of complaint, " Why thus barren? 
Why these scarred and naked sides exposed to the eye of man?" 
A.nd Brahma answered, " The very light shall clothe thee, and the 
shadow of the passing cloud shall be as a royal mantle. More ver- 
dure "would be less light. Thou shalt share in the azure of heaven, 



310 THORNDALE; OR, THE 

and the youngest and whitest cloud of a summer day shall nestle in 
thy bosom. Thou belongest half to us." 

So was the mountain dowered. And so too have the loftiest minds 
of men been in all ages dowered. To lower elevations have been 
given the pleasant verdure, the vine, and the olive. Light, light 
alone, and the deep shadow of the passing cloud, — these are the gifts 
of the prophets of the race. 

Thorndale felt strongly what every reflective man must 
feel, that the ordinary arguments for the immortality of 
the soul, drawn from the light of nature, are quite in- 
sufficient and unsatisfactory. It is upon entirely different 
grounds, and these grounds partaking often but little of 
the nature of argument, that the belief in the doctrine 
really rests. Still the argument fills the page ; and is 
appended to the doctrine much as in cheap Gothic build- 
ings a buttress is added to a wall which does not need its 
support, because it at least looks as if it supported the 
wall. Thorndale's illustration is this : — 

In old wood-cuts one sometimes sees a vessel in full sail upon the 
ocean, and perched aloft upon the clouds are a number of infant 
cherubs, with puffed-out cheeks, blowing at the sails. The swelling 
canvas is evidently filled by a stronger wind than these infant cherubs, 
sitting in the clouds, could supply. They do not fill the sail; but they 
were thought to fill up the picture prettily enough. 

In truth, the usual arguments for immortality are quite 
futile : none more so than that founded upon the imma- 
teriality of the soul. The soul's immateriality is assumed 
to be proved by a manifest petitio principii^ to use the 
logician's phrase. The soul is immaterial, we are told, 
because it thinks and feels ; and matter cannot think and 
feel. But if the soul be material, why then matter can 
think and feel. Thorndale indicates as follows the foun- 
dation of his own belief : — 

I think the contemplation of God brings with it the faith in immo^ 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. oil 

tality. The mere imperfections of our happiness here, our blundering 
lives and inequitable societies, our unrewarded virtues and unavenged 
crimes, our present need of the great threat of future punis-iments, — 
these do not, in my estimation, form safe grounds to proceed upon. 
They enter largely as grounds of a popular faith; but it would be un- 
wise to build upon them: because to rest on such arguments would 
lead us to the conclusion, that in proportion as society advances to 
perfection, and men are more wise and just, in the same proportion 
w ill they have less presumption for the hope of immortality. 

We confess that we stand in no great fear of this last 
suggestion. There is little prospect, as yet, of this world 
becominor too o^ood to need another. We need now, and 
we shall need for many a year, all the comfort and help 
we can draw from " the world that sets this right." 

Our readers will thank us for extracting the following 
passage : — 

A fond mother loses her infant. What more tender than the hope 
she has to meet it again in heaven? Does she really, then, expect to 
find a little child in heaven? some angel-nursling, that she may eter- 
nally take to her bosom, fondle, feed, and caress? Oh, do not ask 
her! I would not have her ask herself. The consolatory vision 
springs spontaneously from the mother's grief. It is nature's own 
remedy. She gave that surpassing love, and a grief as poignant must 
follow. She cannot take away the grief: she half transforms it to a 
hope. 

It is indeed quite true, that in the attempt to define 
with precision the consolations and hopes which Chris- 
tianity affords us with respect to our departed friends, we 
sometimes only destroy what we desired to grasp. And 
it would be hard for us to say exactly how and in wliat 
form we hope to meet again the dear ones wdio have 
gone before us. Perhaps Archbishop Whately is right, 
when he suggests as one possible reason why revelation 
leaves the details so little fJled in of the picture of im- 
mortality which it draws, that some margin may be left 



312 THORNDALE; OR, THE 

for the weakness of human thought and wish ; and that 
in matters beside the great essential centre-truth, each 
may believe or may hope that which he would love the 
best. And in the matter of a little child's loss, we know 
that two quite opposite beliefs have been cherished. For 
ourselves, it seems more natural to think of the little 
thing as it left us ; we believe that, in the ease of most 
of us, the little brother or sister that died long ago, re- 
mains in remembrance the same young thing forever. 
Many years are passed, and we have grown older and 
more careworn since our last sister died ; but she never 
grows older with the passing years ; and if God spares 
us to fourscore, we never shall think of her as other than 
the youthful creature she faded. Still there is pathos 
and nature in Dickens's description, how the father and 
mother who lost in early childhood one of two twin sis- 
ters, always pictured to themselves, year after year, the 
dead child growing in the world beyond the grave, in 
equal progress as the living child grew on earth. And 
Longfellow, in his touching poem of Resignation^ sui^- 
gests a like idea : — 

Day after day, we think what she is doing 

In those bright reahns of air: 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

For when, with raptures wild. 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child. 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 313 

It is worthy of notice, liow the death of little children 
has formed the subject of several of the most touching 
poems in the language. Only those could have written 
them who have children of their own ; and few but par- 
ents can fully enter into their pathos. We may remind 
our readers of Mr. Moultrie's best poem, " The Three 
Sons;" of Mrs. Southey's (Caroline Bowles) beautiful 
picture of an infant's death-bed ; and in a volume lately 
published by Gerald Massey, natural feeling has kept 
affectation from spoiling a most touching piece, called 
'' The Mother's Idol Broken." And no one needs to be 
reminded of what it is that has afforded scope for the 
most pathetic touches of Dickens and Mrs. Beecher 
Stowe. 

Thorndale puts a somewhat startling question as to the 
extent of the gift of immortality. 

Why must I except the alternative — all or none? Why even' Hun 
and Scythian, or else no Socrates or Plato? Why must every corrupt 
thing be brought again to life, or else all hope be denied to the good 
and the great, the loving and the pious? Why must I measure my 
hopes by the hopes 1 would assign to the most weak or wicked of the 
race? Let the poor idiot, let the vile Tiberius, be extinct forever: 
must I too, and all these thoughts that stir in me, perish? 

Probably Thorndale was not aware that this notion, 
which he throws out on merely philosophical grounds, is 
one which, in a modified form, has been suggested, if not 
maintained, upon theological principles, by the most inde* 
pendent and original theologian of the age — we mean 
the Archbishop of Dublin. Dr. Whately has proposed 
it as a subject for inquiry, whether those passages of 
Scripture which describe the everlasting destruction of 
the finally impenitent, may not be justly interpreted as 
signifying their total annihilation ; and thus, whether evil 



814 THORNDALE ; OR, THE • 

and suffering may not entirely cease to be in God's uni- 
verse, not by an universal restoration of all things to the 
good and right, but by the total disappearance of that 
which has been marred past the mending ? No doubt, 
there is something unutterably appalling in the thought 
of a soul in everlasting woe ; no doubt, to our finite 
minds, it appears the most consistent with the divine 
glory and happiness, that a time should come when there 
should be no more pain, sin, and death, anywhere ; but 
the Christian dares not add to or take from that which is 
written; and few, w^e think, can read the words even of 
the Saviour himself as bearing any other meaning than 
one. And as for the difficulty suggested by Thorndale, 
we confess we can discern in it very little force. It is a 
humble thing, always and everywhere, to be a man : 
whether the man be Plato or the Hun. We do not look 
for immortality on the ground that we deserve it, or that 
we are fit for it. And although there may be truth in 
Judge Haliburton's bitter remark, that there is a greater 
difference between some men and some other men, than 
there is between these other men and some monkeys ; 
still, in looking down from the divine elevation, we be- 
lieve that the distances parting the lowest and highest, 
the worst and best, must seem very small. Look down 
from the top of Ben Nevis, and the tuft of heather which 
is a dozen inches higher than the heather round it, differs 
not appreciably from the general level. Nor should it be 
forgotten, that in the lowest and the worst, there is a 
potentiality of becoming good and noble under a certain 
influence which philosophy does not know of, but whose 
reality and power we are content ta test by the logic of 
induction. The coarse lump of ironstone is in its essence 
the self-same thing as the hair-spring of a watch. 



COXFLICT OF OPINIONS. 315 

We pass to the second part of Thorndale's manuscript, 
the Retrospect^ which will be much more interesting to 
ordinary readers than the first book. And here we find 
a graceful and beautiful sketch of the history of his life, 
from the dawn of consciousness down to the time when 
he came to Villa Scarpa to die. He was the happy child 
of a gentle and loving mother, over whom early widow- 
hood had cast a shade of melancholy. His father he never 
knew. A poor lieutenant in the navy, he died of fever 
caught as his ship lay rotting off the coast of Africa 
The mother's piety was deep, and her faith undoubting; 
she knew nothing of the world beyond her own little 
daisied lawn. And the remembrance of the prayer she 
early taught her child to utter, has inspired one of the 
most beautiful passages in English literature : — 

Very singular and very pleasing to me is the remembrance of that 
simple piety of childhood; of that prayer which was said so punctu- 
ally night and morning, kneeling by the bedside. What did I think 
of, guiltless then of metaphysics, — what image did I bring before my 
mind as I repeated m}^ learnt petition with scrupulous fidelity ? Did 
I see some venerable Form bending down to listen V Did He cease to 
look and listen when I had said it all? Half prayer, half lesson, how 
difficult it is now to summon it back again ! But this I know, that the 
bedside where I knelt to this morning and evening devotion became 
sacred to me as an altar. I smile as I recall the innocent superstition 
which grew up in me, that the prayer must be said kneeling just there. 
If, some cold winter's night, I had crept into bed, thinking to repeat 
the petition from the warm nest itself, it would not do ! — it was felt in 
this court of conscience to be 'an insufficient performance:' there was 
no sleep to be had till I had risen, and, bedgowned as I was, knelt at 
the accustomed place, and said it all over again from the beginning to 
the end. To this day, I never see the little clean white bed in which 
a child is to sleep, but I see also the figure of a child kneeling in prayer 
at its side. And I, for the moment, am that child. No high altar in 
the most sumptuous church in Christendom could prompt my knee to 
bend like that snow-white coverlet tucked in for a child's slumber. 

The mother early died ; and her brother a baronet, 



516 THORNDALE ; OR, TIIE 

who dwelt in a noble house standing in a fine old English 
park, adopted the desolate cliild as his own. Grand were 
the trees and fair the shrubberies of Sutton Manor ; but 
its great attraction to Thorndale was his little cousin 
Winifred. He loved her, be tells us, before he knew 
what love was, and long before he knew the vast worldly 
distance that parted even such near relations. Lady 
Moberly, Winifred's mother, was a lady at once ultra- 
fashionable and ultra-evangelical. She was one of those 
of whom the sarcastic Saturday Review declared that the 
names of their great men must be written alike in the 
Peerage and in the Book of Life. Thorndale was shortly 
placed under the charge of a country clergyman, to be 
prepared for Oxford. Here he had one fellow-pupil, 
Luxmore, a youth passionately devoted to poetry. And 
his tutor's library furnished an endless store of poetry, 
theology, and philosophy, which were all devoured with 
equal avidity. When the vacation approached, Thorn- 
dale was somewhat surprised by receiving from Lady 
Moberly a formal invitation to Sutton Manor. He had 
counted, as a matter of course, upon spending the vaca- 
tion there. But her ladyship was cautious ; and her letter 
contained a postscript, cautioning Thorndale to beware 
of a certain fairy who haunted the shrubbery in which 
he was accustomed to walk. He learned the meaning 
of the postscript too soon. His cousin was more charm- 
ing than ever ; but his love, hopeless, yet unconquerable, 
was on his part " a mere worship, where even the prayer 
was not to be spoken." And this passion served to ex- 
tinguish all ambition. He entered the cloisters of Mag- 
dalen, he tells us, — 

Bs indifferent to the world as any monk of the fourteenth century 
could have been. Academical honors, or the greater distinctions in 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 317 

life to which they prepare the way, had no sort of charm for me. The 
* daily bread ' was secured ; and neither law, physic, nor divinity could 
have given me my Winifred. 

A life of mere reflection, then, was to be his portion. 
His over-sensitive mind never recovered the frost of that 
early disappointment. Is it too much to say that it re- 
sults from the morbid body, from the weakness of physical 
nature, when trouble and sorrow, no matter how heavy, 
borne in early youth, cast their shadow over all after- 
years ? What a vast deal a healthy man can " get over!" 
True, as beautiful, are the words of Philip van Artevelde, 
in Mr. Taylor's noble play : — 

Well, well, — she's gone, 
And I have tamed my sorrow. Pain and grief 
Are transitory things, no less than joy, 
And though they leave us not the men we were, 
Yet they do leave us. You behold me here, 
A man bereaved, with something of a blight 
Upon the early blossoms of his life. 
And its first verdure, — having not the less 
A living root, and drawing from the earth 
Its vital juices, from the air its powers: 
And surely as man's health and strength are whole, 
His appetites re-germinate, his heart 
Re-opens, and his objects and desires 
Shoot up renewed, i 

How many twice-married men and women can testify 
to the truth of Artevelde's philosophy ! Out of a ro- 
mance, it takes very much to kill a man, — unless, in- 
deed, consumption has marked him from his birth, and 
his physical constitution lacks the reacting spring. But 
Mr. Smith has made his hero feel and act just as it was 
fit under the conditions given. He became a solitary 
dreamer ; and though feeling the attraction which draws 
1 Taylor's Philip van Artevelde^ Second Part, Act iii., Scene ii. 



318 THORNDALE ; OR, THE 

the moth to the flame, yet at vacation times, instead of 
going to Sutton Manor, he betook himself to Wales or 
Cumberland, to " read." There he read, thought, wrote, 
destroyed. He mused deeply on the constitution of soci- 
ety : he longed for a time when manual labor should not 
be deemed inconsistent with refinement and intellio^ence. 
But he found his theory crumble at the touch of fact. 

As I marched triumphantly along, I came to a field where men were 
ploughing. I had often watched the ploughman as he steps on steadily, 
holding the share down in its place in the soil, and felt curious to try 
the experiment myself. This time, as the countryman who approached 
me had a good-natured aspect, I asked hira to let me take his place 
within the stilts. He did so. I did not give him quite the occasion for 
merriment which I saw he anticipated; I held down the share, and 
kept it in its due position. But I had no conception of the effort it re- 
quired — which, at least, it cost me. When I resigned my place, my 
arms trembled, my hands burned, my brain throbbed; the whole frame 
was shaken. And something, too, was shaken in the framework of my 
speculations. The feasibility of uniting with labors such as these much 
of the culture we call intellectual, was not so clear to me as it was an 
hour ago. I walked along less triumphantly, maintaining a sort of 
prudent silence with myself. 

Thorndale all over ! Easily driven by some little jar, 
even from a cherished purpose or belief. All physical 
constitution again. In the days when manual labor and 
mental cultivation are combined, men like Thorndale 
must be w^atchmakers and printers : men with more 
bone and sinew must go to field-work. But who does 
not remember the diary of Elihu Burritt, when teaching 
himself half a dozen languages, with its constantly re- 
curring entries of " Forged twelve hours to-day " — 
I' Forged fourteen hours to-day " — the brawny black- 
smith, with his fore-hammer and his Hebrew lexicon 
Bide by side ? 

Very frankly and without reserve, Thorndale shows 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 319 

US how his opinions on society swayed to and fro. He 
went to see Manchester, and mourned to think how, 
" for leave to live in habitations, where air and light, 
beauty and fragrance, are shut out for ever, men and 
women are toiling as no other animal on the face of the 
earth toils." And, caring little for conventional propri- 
eties, he sits down in London on the steps of a church 
— it was in Regent-street — amid the offscourings of 
the population, and contemplated society from this new 
point of view. It looked very different ! He heard the 
btified mutterings of the deadly hate which the very low- 
est class bear to those above them. The ground under- 
neath us, in truth is mined : the mine is charged. Is 
not the hatred natural ? We do not ask whether it is 
right. 

Without a doubt, we of the pavement, if we had our will, would stop 
those smooth-rolling chariots, with their liveried attendants (how we 
hate those clean and well-fed lackeys!), would open the carriage-door, 
and bid the riders come down to us ! — come down to share — good 
heaven! what? — our ruffianage, our garbage, the general scramble, 
the general filth. 

Walking another day down Regent-street, he passes 
an open carriage standing at a shop-door. Seated alone 
in it is — Winifred ! He avoids recognition, and hur- 
ries away. Soon he slackens his speed — stops — turns, 
walks back, slowly, rapidly, breathlessly ! The carriage 
was gone. True to the life ! 

He left Oxford at last, and returned to Sutton Manor. 
*' It was the old story of the moth and the flame." He 
resolved that for a month his heart should have its way ; 
and rowing' with Winifred on the river, wandering with 
her in the shrubbery, watching the sun go down, he had 
his "month of elysium." All his philosophy was in 



320 THORIS^DALE; OR, THE 

those dajs full of hope. He wondered at the greatness 
of the human capacity for happiness. At length he 
broke hurriedly away, and hastened to Loch Lomond. 
We have already seen how he returned, and with what 
result. 

Then he became a wanderer. He tells us he never 
ceased to think, but " a despondency crept from his life 
into his philosophy." He went to Germany, Switzer- 
land, Italy — the accustomed route — and learned to 
appreciate the diversity there is in human life. On the 
banks of the lake of Lucerne he met his Utopian friend, 
Clarence, whom he had known at Oxford ; and they spent 
long days in varied talk together. Clarence dwelt much 
upon the misery of the better or the middle classes. He 
thought it exceeds that of the poor wretches on the Re- 
gent-street steps. What ceaseless and life-wearing anx- 
iety and care there are in the hearts of most educated 
men ! Clarence did not wonder that men go mad. As 
life goes against them, as the income proves insufficient, 
as the expenses increase, as impending calamity ever jars 
miserably upon the shaken nerves, and as the mind is 
day by day racked by ceaseless fears, the only wonder 
is that Reason does not oftener forsake her seat, totter, 
and fall ! 

On some futile pretence of seeing his friend, Luxmore, 
the poet, Thorndale returned to England. Luxmore had 
published, and failed. Thorndale found him in a Spe- 
cial Pleader's office, studying for the bar. Luxmore held 
steadily to his books of Practice, till, in an evil hour (he 
liad parted with all his poets), he bought at a stall a 
cheap edition of Shelley. It wakened the old spirit. 
He would emigrate. He would clear the forest and the 
jungle. He would grow corn by the Mississippi. But 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 321 

he must see the South American mountains first ; and 
so he sailed for Rio Janeiro. Thorndale greatly doubted 
to the last whether he had ever " worked his way round" 
to the farm he had talked of Luxmore's character and 
career are ably and skilfully sketched; but we cannot 
say that we are especially struck by the specimens given 
of his poetry. 

In the great steamer, as it lay off Southampton, 
Thorndale bade his friend farewell. He had loved him 
he tells us, as a brother, and an elder brother. Thorn- 
dale's pliant nature was plastic in those robust hands. 
Sadly depressed, he betook himself to a little cottage at 
Shanklin, once more alone but for the old companion — 
the box of books. It was Thorndale's especial misfor- 
tune that, with a native craving for some attached com- 
panion to dwell under the same roof, he was by circum- 
stances always doomed to days of solitude. But a new 
interest now arose. Symptoms of disease, disregarded 
in the excitement of the last days Avith Luxmore, now 
forced themselves on his attention. Some business mat- 
ter compelled him to write to his uncle, thus informing 
his relations at Sutton Manor, for the first time, that he 
had returned to England. Kind messages and regrets 
came in reply : Winifred especially chiding him for his 
unsocial habits. It seemed " a wild strain of irony." 
Yet the few lines she wrote wakened old feelings, never 
quite asleep. Surely she would come and see the poor 
invalid ? So strong did the impression grow, that, catch- 
ing sight one day of a female figure in the garden, bend- 
ing over the flowers, he felt sure it must be Winifred ; 
and watched breathlessly, with violently-beating heart, 
till she turned her face, and the delusion w^as dispelled. 
Still, for days he cherished the vain expectation that she 

21 



322 THORNDALE ; OR, THE 

would come, and restore him, by her very presence, to 
life, and hope, and faith. That was all he needed. 

If I could see thee, 'twould be well with me ! 

Now there came consultations with this and that great 
physician : and soon the death-warrant decidedly ex- 
pressed. Then was a first moment of confusion and 
agony ; and then followed an indescribable calm. It 
was now all smooth water before him. He betook him- 
self to his last retreat at Villa Scarpa ; but he did not 
see Winifred before he left England for ever. Kind 
letters followed him from her mother. Lady Moberly 
would come over to take care of him, with a doctor in 
either hand. Of course she never came. And now the 
last days are gliding over swiftly ; — 

The day is never long. I have, indeed, ceased to take note of the 
measurement of time. One hour is more genial than another; thought 
flows more rapidly, or these damaged lungs breathe somewhat more 
freely at one time than another: but where the present hour stands in 
the series which makes up day and night, what the clock reports of 
the progress of time, I have ceased to ask myself. There is but one 
hour that the bell has to strike for me. 

Yet life is not quite over, even after Thorndale has 
found his last harbor of refuge. Present incident proves 
the completion of past remembrance. The Third Book 
of the manuscript volume is entitled " Cyril, or the Mod- 
ern Cistercian." 

In watching a little point of beach which was visible 
from his terrace, Thorndale had often been struck by the 
figure of a youthful monk, wearing the white habit of the 
Cistercian order, who passed slowly by the sea-margin, 
and sometimes paused in thought. Thorndale had con- 
structed a whole theory of his thinking and history, and 
began to feel towards him as towards a friend. At length, 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 323 

in his ride, Thorridale passed two monks, one of whom 
hi?.d sunk exhausted bj the wayside. He conveyed the 
monk to the monastery in his carriage, and recognized 
in him the Cistercian so often watched. A further sur- 
prise awaited him. On entering the Cistercian's cell, he 
recognized in him an old acquaintance — Cyril. Cyril 
bad entered the Roman Catholic Church, through the 
gate of the monastery. Pie had sought a peaceful, pious, 
and harmonious life within those walls ; and he assured 
Thorndale that he had found all he sought. His history 
had been a tragical one. Brought up in a pious family, 
he had been assailed by sceptical doubts. His father 
was an enthusiast for reformatory punishment. The 
house was full of books on the subject. And from these 
Cyril imbibed the notion that one grand end of all pun- 
ishment should be the reformation of the criminal him- 
self. To punish for mere revenge was unchristian and 
irrational. How, then, of God's punishments inflicted in 
a future life ? The pious father appeared to claim for 
the human legislator principles more noble and enlight- 
ened than those he attributed to the Divine. Eternal 
punishment aims not at the reformation of the guilty. 
Cyril was plunged into all the miseries of doubt. And 
brought up in the conviction that unbehef was the ex- 
tremest sin, his anguish was indescribable. He became 
restless, gloomy, morose. And so, leaving Oxford, Thorn- 
dale left him. 

Thorndale was at Dolgelly, in Wales, w^hen he learned 
that Cyril was at Barmouth, and rode over to see him. 
He met him, just come off the water. Cyril's joy at the 
meeting was extreme. They sat cheerfully down to sup- 
per. Cyril never had been so gay. At length, absently, 
be drew from the pocket of his rough greatcoat a large 



324 THORNDALE ; OR, THE 

mass of iror>, the fluke of an old imchor. At the sight of 
it, suddenly recollecting himself, he burst into a violent 
flood of tears. He confessed to his friend that an acci- 
dent only had prevented him from throwing himself into 
the sea, during the sail from which he had just returned. 
He had gone out with that purpose, driven to it by his 
agony of doubt, and (strange as it may seem) by the fear 
of death. His fear of death was such, that he longed to 
make a plunge and have it over. And amid all the mis- 
ery of his scepticism, he says, surely with sad truth : — 

I am quoted by my family and my friends as a monster of impiety 
and guilt. I am frowned upon, avoided, expostulated with, — and 
pious ministers reprove me — for intellectual pride! 

We can w^ell believe that a pious father or mother, 
deeply loving their son, would yet rather see him laid 
in his coffin than see him turn doubtful of their own 
simple faith. What malady makes a breach so total — 
what leads to a doom so fearful — as unbelief? But let 
it be remembered that in many cases it is a malady, a 
disease for which a man is no more guilty than for con- 
sumption or for typhus. No doubt there is a wilful 
blindness, a preference of falsehood to truth, a flippant, 
hateful self-sufficiency, in the case of some : and let 
these be held responsible. But surely there are earnest 
spirits, battling for the truth — shedding tears of blood 
because they cannot believe, though they long to do so. 
Let us be thankful that in almost every such case the 
disease is a temporary one. It will wear away. " Unto 
the upright there ariseth light in darkness." Unbehef 
is a crisis which must be passed through by the think- 
ing human mind, as certainly as measles and whooping- 
cough by the human body. Of course a blockhead, who 
never thinks at all, will not be troubled by it. The 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 325 

humble and earnest man comes out of it, with a faith 
grounded so deeply that it can never be shaken more. 
Let us pity, then, the young doubter : let us aid him by 
God's blessing: let us not accuse him, and so perhaps 
drive him to despair. The guiUy unbelief is that of the 
man who knows in his conscience that he would rather 
not believe. There is another kind of want of faith 
which the Almighty will not condemn. It is that which 
utters the creed and the prayer together : " Lord, I be- 
lieve: help Thou mine unbelief." 

The next morning Thorndale and Cyril were to have 
breakfasted together. But when Thorndale went to his 
lodgings, he was gone, without a word ; and they met no 
more till they met in the Cistercian monastery. 

After this meeting, Cyril sometimes visited Thorndale 
at the Villa Scarpa. Thorndale did not seek any ac- 
count of the process by which the youth who could believe 
nothing, had passed into the monk who believed every- 
thing. No doubt it would have been the usual story of 
reaction commenced, and then a positive appetite for 
belief growing upon the man. In any case, belief had 
brought Cyril peace and rest. And the doctrine of pur- 
gatory had been to him a favorable distinction of the 
Church of Rome. It represented a reformatory nature 
even in punishment beyond the grave ; and the young 
enthusiast fancied that a special revelation had been 
vouchsafed to him by the Saviour, that every soul that 
God has made should in some -way be saved at last. And 
coming not frequently, stealing quietly up to the terrace 
with his pax vohiscum, Cyril visited Thorndale to the 
last. But Thorndale saw the Cistercian on the strip of 
beach no more. 

Cyril had felt the difficulty which most thoughtful men 



b2^ THORNDALE ; OR, THE 

must feel, as to what coiiceptiou should be formed of 
God : — 

How personify the Infinite? I said to myself. Does not the notion 
of personality itself imply contrast, limitation, and must not a Person 
be therefore Finite ? or how personify at all, but by borrowing from 
the creature, and framing an ideal out of human qualities? 

At one moment my conception of God seemed grand and distinct, 
and my whole soul was filled and satisfied with it. Suddenly I wa 
startled and abashed when I traced in it too plainly the features of 
humanity. These I hastened to obliterate ; and the whole image was 
then fading into terrible obscurity. I remember one day our common 
friend Luxmore saying, in his wild poetic manner, that the ordinary 
imagination of God was but the shadow of a man thrown upwards, — 
the image of our best and greatest, seen larger on the concave of the 
gky. 

We remark upon this, that Luxmore, after all, was 
only stating in a poetical and somewhat exaggerated 
form, a great and fundamental religious truth. We are 
" created in the image of God : " and it is only because 
thei'e is something in us which resembles God, that we 
are able to form any conception of Him and his charac- 
ter. But for this, we could no more conceive of God's 
attributes than a blind man, who never saw, can con- 
ceive of color. We, of course, are fallen creatures ; and 
our blurred and blotted qualities bear only the faintest 
and farthest likeness to that Divine Image in which we 
were made. And further, it is true enough that when 
we kneel down to pray, we should only distract and 
dishearten ourselves by trying to form a conception of 
a Being in whose nature there are such elements as 
eternity, omnipresence, omnipotence, invisibility ; and by 
trying to feel that we are addressing Him. But was 
Luxmore entirely wrong when he said that the Hearer 
of prayer, to our weak minds, draws personality from a 
sublimed humanity ? It is not a fable, that we know the 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 327 

picture of a man's character and life set out in a certain 
simple story, Glad Tidings to all to whom it comes: — a 
man towards w^hom we can feel kindly sympathy and 
warm affection : a human being like ourselves : and we 
are told that He is " the image of the invisible God : " 
that when we picture Him to our hearts, we picture God 
' — softened, but not degraded. We can see ^' the glory 
of God in the face of Jesus Christ : " and in praying to 
God, we can feel as though the kind face were bent over 
us as we pray, — as though w^e were telling of our wants 
and sorrows to that kind and gentle heart. Do we de- 
sire to think clearly to whom we speak when we pray ? 
We are chilled and overwhelmed when we think of in- 
finite space and infinite time : it is not to an aggregate of 
such qualities as these that we can address heartfelt 
pleading. Let us think we are speaking to a sympa- 
thizing Man ; and child-like, we can bend down our head 
upon the knee of Jesus of Nazareth, and breathe into His 
ear the story of our wants and w^oes. "We have all that 
the grossest idolatry ever gave of clear conception ; and 
yet our worship is not degraded, but sublimed. 

Not so pleasing is the Fourth Book of Thorndale's 
manuscript, entitled " Seckendorf, or the Spirit of De- 
nial." Long ago, in Switzerland, Thorndale found Seck- 
endorf in the studio of Clarence, the Utopian artist. Seck- 
endorf was a tall man, with gray hair and keen gray eyes, 
and advanced in years. He was by birth a German 
baron ; but he was known in England as Doctor Secken- 
dorf, an eminent physician and physiologist. In philos- 
ophy, he was just the opposite of Clarence : sceptical, 
sarcastic, hoping nothing. His philosophy was " firm as a 
rock, and as hard and barren." He held that what is ex- 
cellent never can be common, because " higher excellence 



828 THORNDALE ; OR, THE 

is greater complication, and its manifestation must bo 
more restricted, because a larger number of antecedent 
conditions are necessary for that manifestation." The 
Utopian's " good time coming," of universal goodness 
and happiness, could therefore never be. And Thorn- 
dale thought out a sad induction of facts in corroboration 
of the thing : — 

There is more sea than land ; three fourths of the globe are covered 
with salt water. 

There is more barren land than fertile; much is sheer desert, or hope- 
less swamp ; great part wild arid steppes, or land that can only be held 
in cultivation by incessant toil. 

Where nature is most prolific, there is more weed and jungle than 
fruit and flower. 

Of the animal creation, the lowest orders are by far the most numer- 
ous. The infusoria^ and other creatures that seem to enjoy no other 
sensations than what are immediately connected with food and move- 
ment ( if even these), far surpass all others in this respect. The tribes 
of insects are innumerable; the mammalia comparatively few. 

Of the human inhabitants of the earth, the ethnologist tells us that 
the Mongolian race is the most numerous, which is not certainly the 
race in which the noblest forms of civilization have appeared. As in 
the tree there is more leaf than fruit, so in the most advanced nation of 
Europe there are more poor than rich, more ignorant than wise, more 
automatic laborers, the mere creatures of habit, than reasoning and 
reflective men. 

We do not know whether the celebrated anonymous 
work, entitled The Plurality of Worlds, was published be- 
fore Thorndale's death. If he had read it, he might have 
gathered from its eloquent and startling pages one in- 
stance more for his induction. He might have stated 
that there seems stronsr reason to believe that of all the 
orbs which have (if we may say so) blossomed in im- 
mensity, only one has arrived at fruit : that this earth 
is the only inhabited world in all the universe. The 
Creator works with a lavish hand. But as his works 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 829 

grow nobler, they grow fewer. Scarcity, we all know, 
makes a thing more valuable : the converse holds as 
truly, that value makes a thing scarce. 

The second chapter in this Fourth Book treats ingeni- 
ously and strikingly of the power of money ; and also 
furnishes proof that Thorndale, like many men of his 
make, was not minutely accurate. The chapter is called 
^' The Silver Shilling ; " and over and over again we have 
the silver shilling repeated, as the type of money. Seck- 
endorf tells us where he got the name : it was from " a 
poem by one Phillips, ' On the Silver Shilling.' " We 
know, of course, what Seckendorf is referring to ; but 
there is no such poem as that he quotes. Most men 
who are tolerably w^ell read in the poetry of the seven- 
teenth century, have at least heard of John Phillips's 
poem. The Splendid Shilling, an amusing parody of the 
style of Milton : it sets out thus : — 

Happy the man, who, void of care and strife, 
In silken or in leathern purse, retains 
A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain, 
New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale. 

Our shortening space forbids our offering our readers 
any account of Seckendorfs career, which Mr. Smith 
sketches with great liveliness and interest ; or our notic- 
ing the topics which were discussed in council by Thorn- 
dale, Clarence, and Seckendorf. Seckendorf thought 
there is a general movement in England towards the 
Roman Catholic Church ; and that it is not unlikely 
that the ragged urchin who is chalking up " No Po- 
pery " on the walls of London, may live to see High 
Mass performed in St. Paul's Cathedral. He main- 
tained that fear is the root of all religion ; the unseen 
root, even in the happiest Christians : — that " the pil* 



330 THORNDALE; OR THE 

lars of heaven are sunk in hell." We differ from hira. 
We think that love and hope, rather than fear, are tho 
guiding influences in the Christian life. We believe that 
though a great fear may be the thing that wakens a man 
up from total unconcern about religion, jet that the race 
once entered on, he treads ^' the way to Zion with his 
face thitherward;'' — looking towards the home he seeks; 
and drawn by the hope before, rather than driven by the 
fear behind him. 

Thorndale's Fiflh Book is called " Clarence, or the 
Utopian." As the invalid was wearing down from day 
to day, one morning he was sitting in the gardens of the 
Villa Eeale. There a group drew his attention, — a 
father, and, as it seemed, his little daughter. The father 
was evidently an Englishman : the little girl, with fair 
complexion and light hair, had the dark eye of the Ital- 
ian. Thorndale recognized his old friend Clarence ; but 
with characteristic reserve, he shrunk from making him- 
self known. But he looked with kind feeling upon the 
little child ; and mused, as Dr. Arnold had done before 
him, on a child's power to reawaken a parent's flagging 
interest in life. The beatdn track is no longer monoto- 
nous : the circle of the year looks new. Thorndale thus 
mused : — 

What beautiful things there are in life! joys that have come down 
to us pure and unstained from the times of the patriarchs. It is to me 
an eternal miracle to see the same roses year after year bloom as fresh- 
ly as the}^ did in Paradise. Plant this wedded happiness, plant these 
roses, in every rood of ground, ye who would improve the aspect of 
this world ! but do not think you can change a single leaf of the plant 
itself 

Thorndale's idea had been anticipated. James Hed- 
derwick thus excuses a new poem on the old theme of 
Love : — 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. S31 

The theme is old, — even as the flowers are old, 

That sweetl}' showed 
Their silver bosses and bright-budding gold 

Through Eden's sod; — 
And still peep forth through grass and garden mould, 

As fresh from God ! 

Happily Thorndale and Clarence met at last. The 
little girl, compassionating the wan look of the consump- 
tive, offered him another day some flowers, Clarence 
followed her ; and suddenly recognizing his old com- 
panion, " burst into tears like a woman." He and his 
little Julia were afterwards constant visitors at the Villa 
Scarpa ; and all the beauty of the scene, which had been 
paling to the dying man's languid eye, suddenly revived. 
Morning after morning Clarence spent, painting the view 
from Thorndale's terrace. Julia was not his daughter : 
she was his adopted child. She was the daughter of 
an exiled Italian patriot who had come to England, mar- 
ried an English woman, settled down quietly in a little 
cottage on the borders of the New Forest, and supported 
himself as a sculptor. We trust that all our readers will 
make a point of perusing the chapter called " Julia Mon- 
tini," in which the story of the exile, his wife and child, 
is related with exquisite grace and pathos. Very beauti- 
fully did the simple and untaught English girl tell Clar- 
ence how, as there gradually grew upon her the sense of 
the genius and refinement of the man she had married^ 
she feared that he would cease to love her, so much 
above her as he was. She read and studied, hoping to 
make herself more worthy of him : but her fear proved 
idle ; he never loved her less. It is indeed something 
of a disappointment for a husband to feel there are 
realms of thought to which he has access, but into which 
a gentle and loving wife cannot enter with him : but 



832 THORNDALE ; OR, THE 

solitude is the penalty which attaches of necessity to 
elevated thought. The man who climbs too high, leaves 
common sympathy behind him. Our readers may re- 
member how beautifully the author of hi Memoriam 
has anticipated the poor young wife's thoughts and 
fears : — 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, 

He reads the secret of the star: 

He seems so near and yet so far: 
He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

For him she plays, to him she sings, 

Of early faith and plighted vows ; 

She knows but matters of the house, 
And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move, 
She darkly feels him dark and wise: 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand: I love.'* 

Suddenly the sculptor and his wife died of fever ; and 
Clarence found the little child all alone in the deserted 
cottage. The quiet home, that had looked so happy, Avas 
obliterated at a stroke. Is it a morbid thing, if we find 
it for ourselves impossible to look at any happy home, 
without picturing to our mind a day sure to come ? We 
look at the cottage in the sunshine, amid its clustering 
roses, and with children's voices by. Ah, some day 
there will be an unwonted bustle, — straw flying about 
the neat walks — empty, echoing rooms — the children 
gone — and the peaceful home broken up for ever. It 
is well for those who can feel themselves secure even if 
they be not safe. 

And now Clarence and Julia soothe the dying man's 
golitude. Thorndale lies on his sofa under the acacia* 



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS. 333 

* 
tree ; Clarence stands near, painting ; Julia is busy gar- 
dening:. And as Thorndale's hand turns too feeble to 
bold the pen, Clarence takes up his abandoned manu- 
script volume, and fills the remaining leaves with his 
own confession of faith. To notice that at all adequately 
would demand an article of itself; and we shall not at- 
tempt to do so. But we see our last of Thorndale as w^e 
have just described him. We leave him, now with very 
little to come of life, under the acacia-tree. There is 
now only the stillness of expectation upon that terrace 
that looks down upon the bay. 

We should have been happier, we confess, had we left 
him with something better to support him at the last 
than philosophy, whether cynical or Utopian. Surely he 
had within himself, too sacred for common talk, a hope 
and a belief not to be paraded for Seckendorf 's sarcasm ! 
Surely, when, in the last hours, the pictures of childhood 
came back, the perplexed and tempest-driven man was 
again the child that prayed by the little white bedside. 
We do not care if our readers should complain that the 
sermon peeps through the article — that the disguise of 
the reviewer does not quite conceal the gown and band. 
Let it ^>e so : but in treating of such grave matters as 
those which this book suggests, we could not have for- 
given ourselves had we failed to notice the book's essen- 
tial defect. Holding the belief which w^e hold, we could 
not have written of the mystery of life, without refer^ 
ence to that which alone can read it. 




CHAPTER XIL 
CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.i 

R. CAIRD'S name is already known to the 
English public as that of the author of a 
sermon on Religion in Common Life, which 
was pubhshed two or three years ago by 
her Majesty's command. Every Sunday during her 
autumn sojourn at Balmoral, the Queen and court wor- 
ship at the little parish church of Crathie ; and at vari- 
ous times several of the most popular preachers of the 
Church of Scotland have there preached in the presence 
of royalty. Dr. Norman McLeod of Glasgow, Dr. Cum- 
ming, Mr. Stuart, of St. Andrew's, Edinburgh, and other 
eminent Scotch clergymen, have officiated at Crathie 
Church, and in more than one instance with so favor- 
able an impression, that the manuscripts of the dis- 
courses have been required for the Queen's private 
perusal. But Mr. Caird was the first Scotch minister 
who received a royal command to give his sermon to the 
public ; and indeed, with the exception of the Bishop of 
Oxford, the first preacher who had been so distinguished 
during her Majesty's reign. Many circumstances, apart 
from the merit of the discourse, contributed to secure for 
it a very large circulation in England as well as in Scot- 

1 Sermons. By the Rev. John Caird, M. A., Minister of the Park 
Church, Glasgow, Author of Rellylon in Common Life. Edinburgh 
and London : Blackwoods. 1858. 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 335 

land ; and we have been informed that no single sermon 
published in modern times has been so extensively read. 
Somewhere about a hundred thousand copies of it were 
exhausted in Britain : a still greater number were re- 
quired for the United States, where our friends were 
eager to know what sort of religious instruction was ap- 
proved bj a queen ; and the sermon being translated 
into the German tongue, was republished in Germany 
with a recommendatory preface by the Chevalier Bun- 
sen. At that period it became known for the first time 
to the English public that there had arisen in Scotland a 
new luminary ; a great pulpit orator who was held by 
many to be equal to any who had preceded him, Chal- 
mers and Guthrie not being excepted. And the pub- 
lished sermon seemed almost to justify the enthusiasm of 
Mr. Caird's warmest admirers. We believe that among 
intelligent readers there was but one opinion of it, as an 
ingenious, eloquent, sensible, and interesting exposition 
of an important practical subject. Still, we have been 
told that some readers thought Mr. Caird's theology very 
defective ; and it is not long since we read a letter in a 
newspaper which is the organ of a small religious sect, 
in which Mr. Caird was sadly torn to pieces as lacking 
all spiritual insight and knowledge of the gospel doc- 
trines. And the ingenious writer of that letter stated 
that nothing could be more mistaken than the popular 
belief that the Queen, in commanding the publication of 
Mi. Caird's sermon, intended to express her approval of 
it. On the contrary, her Majesty's purpose was (so the 
writer of the letter assures us) to make an appeal to the 
sympathies of the religious public, and to say, — " Pity 
me, my subjects ; here is a specimen of the kind of 
thing that I have to listen to in Scotland in autumn ! " 



336 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

Mr. Caird mnde his reputation as a preacher while 
minister of a church in Edinburgh, but about ten years 
since he retired from the bustle of a city clergyman's life 
to the country parish of Errol, in Perthshire. From his 
seclusion there he occasionally emerged to preach in the 
large towns of Scotland, and far from being forgotten or 
lost sight of in his country retirement, his popularity ap- 
peared ever on the increase. Whenever he preached in 
Edinburo;h or Glasojow, the crowds that followed him had 
hardly been equalled since the great days of Dr. Chal- 
mers ; and the fame to which Religion in Common Life 
attained did not surpass the expectations of his Scotch 
admirers. A few months since Mr. Caird, now a clergy- 
man of thirteen years' experience, was transferred from 
his country parish to the beautiful church recently erected 
in the West-end Park at Glasgow, to which we are sorry 
to see its builders were too Protestant to give a saint's 
name. There, with undiminished fire and unslackening 
popularity, Mr. Caird preaches twice every Sunday. 
The stranger in Glasgow, if he wanders on Sunday after- 
noon in the direction of the Park, wdll see a well-dressed 
eager crowd hurrying towards the Park Church ; and we 
understand that so overcrowded was the building at Mr. 
Caird's first coming, that it has been found necessary to 
furnish the congregation with tickets, no one being ad- 
mitted without producing one. Mr. Caird, we believe 
is of opinion that in order to produce its full impression, 
a sermon ought not to be read, but to be delivered as if 
given extempore ; but as the labor of committing a dis- 
course to memory is great, he reads his forenoon discourse, 
and delivers without any manuscript that which he preaches 
in the afternoon. The afternoon appearance is thus the 
great one, and it is to that service that strangers who wish 



COXCERNIXG A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 837 

to hear the eminent preacher generally go. And although 
it is in the nature of things impossible that a great orator 
should be always at his best, we believe that hardly any 
one who goes to hear Mr. Caird of an afternoon, how- 
ever high his expectations may have been, returns dis- 
appointed. 

Let us suppose that by the kindness of some Glasgow 
acquaintance we have succeeded in procuring tickets of 
admission to the Park Church. In the midst of a throng 
which has converged from many points to the steep ascent 
which leads up to it, we approach the stately Gothic 
building, with its massive tower, which, standing on an 
elevated ridge of ground, looks on either hand over the 
distant din of thronging streets beneath to the quiet coun- 
try hills far away. We find our way into the church, 
and we have time to look around us, for there is still half 
an hour before service begins. Is this really a Presby- 
terian church ? What would John Knox say to it ? For 
all the liojht within is the " dim reliojious li^jht " of the 
cathedral, mellowed in its passage through the windows 
of stained glass : there is the lofty vaulted roof of richly 
carved oak, and the double line of shafts parting the 
side aisles : far up, the amber-tinted clerestory windows 
throw shafts of sunset color upon the oaken beanis ; and 
in the distance — for the church is a very long one — 
there is nothing less than a spacious chancel, parted from 
the church by a lofty pointed arch, partly filled up by a 
traceried screen of stone. And at the extremity of the 
chancel, but (something lacking still) at the west end of 
the church, there is an altar-window, whose fair proportions 
and rich tracery might have been designed by Pugin. 
No galleries cut these graceful shafts, and the seats are 
not pew^s, but open benches of oak. There is no organ, 
22 



338 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

and no altar ; but directly in front of the chancel a plain 
pulpit of oak. 

It is just two o'clock. Every seat is crowded, and the 
passages have gradually filled with people who are con- 
tent to stand. And as the last tones of the bell have 
died away Mr. Caird ascends the pulpit, wearing, as 
Scotch ministers do, the black silk preaching-gown and 
cassock. His appearance is natural and unaffected. Of 
the middle size, with dark complexion and long black hair, 
good but not remarkable forehead, a somewhat careworn 
and anxious expression, and looking like a retiring and 
hard-wrought student of eight-and-thirty — there we have 
Mr. Caird. He begins the service by reading the psahn 
which is to be sung, and we are struck at once by the 
solemnity and depth of his voice, and we feel already 
something of the indescribable charm there is about the 
whole man. The psalm is sung by a choir so efficient 
that the lack of the organ is hardly felt. Then the min- 
ister rises, and. the whole congregation standing, offers a 
prayer. The Church of Scotland has no liturgy, and 
every clergyman has to prepare his own prayers. These 
are commonly understood to be given extemporaneously, 
and generally they are extemporaneous ; but as we listen 
to those sentences, uttered with so much feeling, solem- 
nity, quietude, and fluency, we soon know that the prayers, 
filled with happy turns of expression, containing many 
phrases and sentences borrowed from the Liturgy, and 
some (or we are much mistaken) translated from the 
Missal, and all conceived and expressed in the simple, 
beautiful liturgical spirit, have been, if not written, at 
least most carefully thought over at home. At one time 
Mr. Caird's prayers were ambitious and oratorical ; but 
now their perfect simplicity tells of more mature judg- 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 839 

ment and taste. We cannot say whether the congrega- 
tion has so far mastered the essential difficulty of unlitur- 
gical common prayer as to be properly joining in those 
petitions ; but the perfect stillness, the silence and stirless- 
ness that prevail in church, testify that the congregation 
is at all events intently listening. The prayer is over — 
only a quarter of an hour. Then a lesson from Scrip- 
ture is read, chosen at the discretion of the clergyman ; 
then a psalm is sung ; then comes the sermon. You 
cannot doubt, as you see the people arranging themselves 
for fixed attention, what portion of the worship of God 
is thought in Scotland the most important. The service 
in that country is essentially one of instruction rather 
than one of devotion. The text is read ; it is generally 
such as we feel at once to be a suggestive one ; it is some- 
times striking, but never odd or strange. Then Mr. 
Caird begins his sermon. He has no manuscript before 
him, not a shred of what the humbler Scotch call paper^ 
and abhor as they abhor a vestige of Rome ; but who 
could for a moment be misled into ima^^inino: those 
felicitous sentences extemporaneous, or that masterly 
symmetrical discussion of the subject, so ingenious, so 
thoughtful, so rich in fine illustration, rising several 
times in the course of the sermon into a fervid rush 
of eloquence that you hold your breath to listen to — 
the excogitation of the moment ? In hearing Mr. Caird 
you have nothing to get over. There is nothing that de- 
tracts from the general effect ; none of those disagreeable 
peculiarities and awkwardnesses in utterance, in gesture, 
in appearance, in mode of thought, which grievously 
detract from the pleasure with which we listen to many 
distinguished speakers till we get accustomed to them, 
ami laarn to fori>:et their defects in their merits and 



340 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

beauties. He begins quietly, but in a manner which 13 
full of earnestness and feeling ; every word is touched 
with just the right kind and degree of emphasis; many 
single words, and many little sentences which when you 
recall them do not seem very remarkable, are given in 
tones which make them absolutely thrill through you : 
you feel that the preacher has in him the elements of a 
tragic actor who would rival Kean. The attention of the 
congregation is riveted ; the silence is breathless ; and as 
the speaker goes on gathering warmth till he becomes 
impassioned and impetuous, the tension of the nerves of 
the hearer becomes almost painful. There is abundant 
ornament in style — if you were cooler you might proba- 
bly think some of it carried to the verge of good taste ; 
there is a great amount and variety of the most expres- 
sive, apt, and seemingly unstudied gesticulation : it is rath- 
er as though you were listening to the impulsive Italian 
speaking from head to foot, than to the cool and unexcit- 
able Scot. After two or three such climaxes, with pauses 
between, after the manner of Dr. Chalmers, the preacher 
gathers himself up for his peroration, which, with the 
tact of the orator, he has made more striking, more 
touching, more impressive than any preceding portion 
of his discourse. He is wound up often to an excitement 
which is painful to see. The full deep voice, so beauti- 
fully expressive, already taxed to its utmost extent, breaks 
into something which is almost a shriek ; the gesticulation 
becomes wild ; the preacher, who has hitherto held himself 
to some degree in check, seems to abandon himself to the 
full tide of his emotion : you feel that not even his elo- 
quent lips can do justice to the rush of thought and feel- 
ing within. Two or three minutes in this impassioned 
Btrain and the sermon is done. A few moments of start- 



CONCERXIXG A GEEAT SCOTCH FEEACIIER. 341 

ling silence ; you look round the church ; every one is 
bending forward with eyes intent upon the pulpit ; then 
there is a general breath and stir. You think the ser- 
mon has lasted about ten minutes ; you consult your 
watch — it has lasted three quarters of an hour. If you 
are an enthusiastic Anglican you say to yourself, " Well, 
that comes to the mark of Melvill or Bishop Wilberforce." 
If an enthusiastic Scotch churchman, you say to yourself, 
" Well, I suppose Chalmers was better ; but 1 never heard 
preaching like it, save from Guthrie or Norman McLeod." 

Then follow a brief collect, a hymn, and the benedic- 
tion ; and you come away, having heard the great Scotch 
preacher. We may very fitly call him so ; for except 
Dr. Guthrie and Dr. McLeod, there is no one whom the 
popular judgment of Scotland in general places near Mr. 
Caird. And though ^^^v^^ district of Scotland and every 
town has its popular preacher — and though many con- 
gregations have each their own favorite clergyman whom 
they prefer to all others — still the very best that the 
warmest admirers of other Scotch ministers can find to 
say of them is, that they are better than Mr. Caird. 
He is the Scotch Themistocles. Even those who would 
place another preacher first, place Mr. Caird second. 

It is rarely indeed that we find such a remarkable 
combination in one individual of the qualities which go 
to make an effective pulpit orator. Mr. Caird's mind 
has the knack of producing the precise kind of thought 
which shall be at once worthy of the attention of the 
best educated and most refined, and eflective when ad- 
dressed to a mixed congregation. And that is the prac- 
tical talent for the preacher, after all. No depth, origi- 
nality, or power of thought will make up in a sermon for 
the absence of general interest. No thought or style is 



342 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

good in the pulpit, which is tiresome. There is an in- 
sufferable but lofty order of thought, which you listen to 
with an effort, feel to be extremely ^ne, and cease listen- 
ing to as soon as possible. John Foster, who scattered 
congregations, was beyond doubt an abler preacher than 
Mr. Caird ; but he did scatter congregations, and there- 
fore he was not a good preacher, finely as his published 
discourses read. There are other preachers who attract 
crowds by preaching sermons which revolt every one 
who possesses good sense or good taste ; but in distinc- 
tion alike from the good unpopular preacher and the bad 
popular preacher, Mr. Caird has the talent to produce 
at will an order of thought elevated enough to please 
the most cultivated, and interesting enough to attract 
the masses. He has a good foundation of metaphysical 
acumen and power ; strong practical sense ; then great 
powers in the way of happy and striking illustration ; in- 
deed, he traces analogies between the material and the 
spiritual with a felicity which reminds us of Archbishop 
"Whately. Mr. Caird has also that invaluable gift of the 
orator — a capacity of intense feeling ; he can throw his 
whole soul into w^hat he says, with an emotion which is 
contagious. Further, he has a remarkably telling and 
expressive voice, and a highly effective dramatic manner. 
Add to all these qualifications that, from natural bent, 
fostered and encouraged by unequalled success from his 
first entering the church, he has devoted himself stead- 
fastly to the single end of becoming a great and distin- 
guished preacher. That end he has completely attained 
For at least ten years he has held in Scotland the' posi- 
tion which he now holds ; and the fortunate incident of 
his preaching at Crathie extended his reputation beyond 
the limits of Scotland. Mr. Caird is certainly the most 



CONCERXING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 343 

generally popular preacher in the Scotch Church, and he 
deserves his popularity. We cannot, of course, go into 
the question of mute inglorious Miltons, and of flow- 
ers born to blush unseen. It is possible enough that 
among the Cumberland hills, or in curacies like Sydney 
Smith's on Salisbury Plain, or wandering sadly by the 
ghore of Shetland fiords, there may be men who have in 
them the makings of better preachers than Bishop Wil- 
berforce, Mr. Melvill, Dr. McLeod, or Mr. Caird. Of 
course there may be Folletts that never held a brief, 
Angelos that never built St. Peter's, and Yandycks who 
never got beyond their sixpence a day. There may be, 
of course, and there may not be ; and what is known 
must for practical purposes be taken for what is. 

It may readily be supposed that the announcement of 
a forthcoming volume of sermons by so distinguished a 
preacher did not fail to excite much interest in the dis- 
trict where he is best known. Little Tom Eaves, who 
at different times has given Mr. Thackery so much valu- 
able information, assured us, on his return from a recent 
visit to Edinburgh, that the eminent publishers who have 
sent forth this volume, were content to give for its copy- 
right a sum which, for a volume of sermons, was quite 
extraordinary — as much, in fact, as Sir Walter Scott 
received for Marmion, Mr. Caird's book is sure to have 
many readers. Many educated people in England will 
feel curious to know what sort of preaching is at a pre- 
mium in the Scotch Church, where many things are so 
different from what they are among us. And we think 
we have been able to trace one or two indications in the 
volume, that Mr. Caird had an English audience in view. 
On at least two occasions we find the word Sunday (" a 
Sunday meditation," '' Su7iday-&choo\ teachers,") where 



344 CONCERXIXG A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

we are mistaken if most Scotch preachers would not 
have employed the word Sahhath, which is in almost 
universal use north of the Tweed. But in Scotland, no 
doubt, Mr. Caird will find the great majority of his read- 
ers. Numbers of people who have listened to the fiery 
orator will be anxious to find whether the discourses 
»vhich struck them so much when aided by the acces- 
sories of a wonderfully telling manner, will stand the 
severer test of a quiet perusal at home. So here is Mr. 
Caird's volume. 

Here, then, we have the spent thunderbolts, motion- 
less and cold. Here we have the locomotive engine, 
w^hich tore along at sixty miles an hour, with the fire 
raked out and the steam gone down. Here, in short, we 
have the sermons of the great Scotch pulpit orator, strip- 
ped of the fire, the energy, the eloquent voice, the abun- 
dant gesticulation, which did so much to give them their 
charm when delivered and heard. There is but one 
story told as to the share which manner has always had 
in producing the practical effect which has been felt in 
listening to all great orators, from "Demosthenes to Chal- 
mers. Manner has always been the first, second, and 
third thing ; and Mr. Caird could not publish his manner. 
We can examine his sermons calmly, and make up our 
mind about their merits deliberately, now. To do so was 
quite impossible while we were hurried away by the 
mshing eloquence of the living voice. 

No doubt, then, this volume will disappoint the less in- 
telligent class of Mr. Caird's admirers, who expect to be 
as deeply impressed in reading these discourses as they 
were in hearing them. No words standing quietly on 
the printed page can possibly have the effect of the same 
words spoken by the human voice, with immense feeling, 



CONCERNING A GEEAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 345 

and with all the arts of oratory. To expect that they 
•should have an equal effect is to expect that the sword 
laid upon the table should cut as deeply as it did when 
grasped in a strong and skilful swordsman's hand. Mr. 
Caird's manner we know is a remarkably effective one ; 
and of course the better the speaker's manner, the more 
his speech loses by being dissociated from it. 

Still, after making every deduction, they are noble ser- 
mons ; and we are not sure but that, with the cultivated 
reader, they will gain rather than lose by being read, not 
heard. There is a thoughtfulness and depth about them 
which can hardly be appreciated, unless when they are 
studied at leisure ; and there are many sentences so fe- 
licitously expressed that we should grudge being hurried 
away from them by a rapid speaker, without being allowed 
to enjoy them a second time. And Mr. Caird, we feel as 
we read his pages, has succeeded in attaining a great end : 
he has shown that it is possible to produce sermons which 
shall be immensely popular, and popular with all classes 
of people : while yet all shall be so chaste and correct 
that the most fastidious taste could hardly take exception 
to a single word or phrase. In Mr. Caird's sermons there 
is nothinoj extrava«:ant or eccentric either in thought or 
style. There is nothing unworthy of the clergyman and 
the scholar. There are no claptrap expedients to excite 
attention ; nothing merely designed to make an audience 
gape ; nothing that could possibly produce a titter. The 
solemnity of the house of God is never forgotten. Mr. 
Caird has no peculiar views, no special system of theol- 
ogy : he preaches the moderate and chastened Calvinism 
of the Church of Scotland, — precisely the doctrine of 
the Thirty-Nine Articles. He does not tell his hearers 
that the world is coming to an end ; he finds nothing about 



S46 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

Louis Napoleon in the Book of Revelation ; he does not 
select queer texts, or out of the way topics for discussion. 
It is no small matter to have proved in this age of pulpit 
drowsiness on the one hand, and pulpit extravagance on 
the other, that sound and temperate doctrine, logical 
accuracy, and classical language are quite compatible 
with great popularity. It is pleasant to find that dis- 
courses which are thoroughly manly and free from senti- 
mentalism or cant prove attractive to a class which is too 
ready to run after such preachers as Mr. Charles Honey- 
man ; and that sensible and judicious views, set forth in a 
style which is always scholarly and correct, and enforced 
by a manner in which there is no acting, howling, ven- 
triloquizing, or gymnastic posturing, can hold vast crowds 
in a rapt attention, which would please even that slashing 
critic of the pulpit, Hahitans in Sicco, Wide as the poles 
apart is such popularity as that of Mr. Caird from such 
popularity as that of Mr. Spurgeon and his class. It is 
very often with contempt and indignation that people 
of sense and taste listen to "popular preachers." No 
doubt such preachers may be well fitted to please and 
even to profit the great multitude who have little sense 
and no taste at all ; but it is a fresh and agreeable sensa- 
tion to the reviewer when he discovers a man whose emi- 
nence as a preacher is the sequel to a brilliant career at 
the University ; whose sermons indicate a mind stored 
with the fruits of extensive reading and study ; who 
shrinks instinctively from whatever is coarse or grotesque ; 
who abhors all claptrap ; who is perfectly simple and sin- 
cere without a trace of self-consciousness ; in whose com- 
position there is nothing spasmodic, nothing aiming to be 
subtle and succeeding in being unintelligible ; and who 
Beems, so far as it is possible to judge, to be actuated by 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 347 

an earnest desire to impress religious truth upon the 
minds of his hearers. And, indeed, when we think what 
is the great end of the preacher's endeavors, we feel that 
all mere literary qualities and graces are of no account 
whatever when compared with the presence of that effi- 
cacious element in the sermon which makes it such ag 
that it shall be the means of saving souls. For ourselves, 
we should prefer a thousand times the magic spell which 
Miss Marsh (all honor to the name) exercised at Syden- 
ham over English Hearts, to the church-crowding elo- 
quence of Chalmers. And in that solemn sense, perhaps 
the greatest of all English preachers is the homely, pithy, 
earnest Mr. Kyle. 

We confess that we do not think sermons, generally 
speaking, by any means attractive reading ; and we have 
not read a sufficient number of them to be able to insti- 
tute a comparison between the printed sermons of Mr. 
Caird and those of other distinguished preachers. Still, 
we may say that we do not find in Mr. Caird the origi- 
nality of Mr. Melvill, or the talent of that eminent divine 
for eliciting from his text a great amount of striking and 
unexpected instruction. There is nothing of the daring 
ingenuity and the novel interpretations of Archbishop 
Whately. Mr. Caird will never found a school of disci- 
ples, like Dr. Arnold ; nor startle steady-going old cler- 
gymen, like Mr. Robertson of Brighton. He is so clear 
and comprehensible that he will not, like Mr. Maurice, 
make many readers feel or fancy the presence of some- 
thing very fine, if they could only be sure what the 
preacher would be at. He hardly sets a scene before us 
in such life-like reality as does Dr. Guthrie. And al- 
though people may go to hear him for the intellectual 
treat, they will never go to be amused, as by Mr. Spur- 



34:8 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

geon. He will never point a sentence at the expense of 
due solemnity, like a great Scotch preacher who con- 
trasted men's profession and their practice by saying, 
" Profession says, ' On this hang the law and the proph- 
ets ; ' Practice says, ' Hang the law and the prophets ! ' " 
He will not, like Mr. Cecil, arrest attention by beginning 
his sermon, " A man was hanged this morning at Ty- 
burn ; " nor like Rowland Hill, by exclaiming " Matches ! 
matches ! matches ! " — nor like somebody or other by 
saying as he wiped his face, " It's damned hot ! " — nor 
like Whitefield, by vociferating " Fire ! fire — in hell ! " 
He will not imitate Sterne, who read out as his text, " It 
is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the 
house of feasting ; " and then exclaimed, as the first words 
of his discourse, " That I deny ! " — making it appear in 
a little while that such was not the preacher's own senti- 
ment, but what might be supposed to be the reflection of 
an irreligious man. He will never introduce into his 
discourses long dialogues and arguments between God 
and Satan, in which the latter is made to exhibit a 
deficiency in logical power which is, to say the least, 
remarkable in one who is believed not to lack intellect. 
He will not appear in the pulpit with his shirt-sleeves 
turned back over his cassock, in ball-room fashion ; and 
after giving out his text, astonish the congregation by 
bellowing, " Now, you young men there, listen to my ser- 
mon, and don't stare at my wrists ! " All such arts for 
attracting or compelling interest and attention Mr. Caird 
eschews. 

And when we read his sermons, though we feel their 
interest, we find it hard to say in what it lies. They are 
admirable sermons : but we should scarcely, a priori, 
have ventured to predict their vast popular effect. The 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 349 

finely-linked thought, the completeness and symmetry of 
the discussion, the beautifully appropriate illustrations, 
none stuck in for ornament, but all bond fide illustrating 
the subject ; the general sobriety and good sense : — these 
are literary characteristics which we should say would 
prove hardly discernible, and certainly not appreciable, 
5ave by people of considerable cultivation. Must we, 
then, fall back upon Manner, and suppose that the charm 
which gives these sermons their popular effect lies in a 
great measure in the touching and thrilling tones, the 
tears in the voice, the enchaining earnestness, with which 
they are poured forth by an orator who, like Whitefield, 
could almost melt an audience to tears by saying Mesopo- 
tamia ? Or may we not rather ask whether Mr. Caird, 
in his elaborate and fastidious preparation of these dis- 
courses for the press, has not cut out, or smoothed down, 
much which was most striking when the sermons were 
preached, but which might have appeared of doubtful 
taste when they were carefully and critically read over ? 
Perhaps these sermons, w^hile gaining in finish and per- 
fection of literary construction, have lost vsome of the 
salient points, the roughness and raciness, which added 
to their piquancy w^hen delivered. We have heard Mr. 
Caird preach two of those now published ; and we find 
he has drawn his pen through several of those phrases 
which had stuck longest and most vividly in our memory. 
We think he has erred here. He has been over-cautious, 
over-fastidious. It is on the very borderland of good 
taste that the deepest popular impression is made : and 
there was no fear of Mr. Caird's crossing the border. 
And we believe that upon ordinary Sundays, by dis- 
courses of much less elaborate preparation, he produces 
even a greater effect upon his congregation than could be 



350 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

produced by any sermon in this volume, were it preached 
exactly as it is printed. 

The published discourses are certainly very ambitious 
in thought and style. There is a want of repose in them ; 
and when two or three are read successively, the effect 
upon the mind is a little wearisome. But no doubt they 
were written to be preached ; and when they are listened 
to one at a time, and at intervals of a w^eek, this result 
will not follow. It is well to have the attention riveted 
and the nerves tightened for half an hour in the week : 
but the process becomes painful when it lasts too long. 
We remark a little mannerism here and there. An ex- 
traordinary number of paragraphs begin with the word 
Now: and the term yearning is, we think, of much too 
frequent occurrence. The result of the abundant use of 
this word, and of the occasional heaping up of adjectives 
unconnected by any copulative, and of nearly the same 
meaning, is to leave an occasional impression of an ex- 
cess of the gushing element. There is the least shade 
here and there of the cant of the present day about " the 
response of our deepest nature," — its " instinctive throb," 
and its " instinctive yearnings," — phrases which to plain 
folk mean just nothing at all. We confess that we do not 
like the word fair several times applied to the Almighty 
■ — " the alone Infinitely True and Holy and Fair." The 
\vord suggests ideas which are not in harmony with so 
solemn an application of it. And as we are fault-finding 
at any rate, we may here state that in all the volume 
there is but a single passage which appears to us to be in 
glaringly and painfully bad taste : so much and so disa- 
greeably so that we wonder that Mr. Caird should have 
published it. It is that passage in which heaven is de- 
scribed as a place — 



COISCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 351 

where, heart to heart with God^ happy souls revel unsated, undazzled, in 
the Essential Element of Love. 

The description appears to us most irreverent, and its 
entire strain most unbecoming. Mr. Spurgeon could 
hardlj have said anything worse. We have drawn 
the pen through it in our copy, that our pleasure in 
reading the volume may not be interrupted by its jar- 
ring and irritating effect ; and we trust that in the future 
editions which are sure to be wanted, Mr. Caird will 
strike the entire passage out. It is most unworthy of 
him. 

We do not know whether Mr. Caird was accustomed 
to preach such sermons as those now published to his 
country congregation. There are many phrases and 
sentences in them which to rustics w^ould be quite un- 
intelligible. What could a ploughman make of the fol- 
lowing question : — 

What elements must we eliminate from suffering caused by sin in 
forming our ideal of suffering purity? — (p. 171.) 

But as we know that Madame Rachel, by her wonder- 
fully expressive gesticulation, succeeded, while in Russia, 
in making her meaning intelligible to people who did not 
understand the language which she spoke, so Mr. Caird 
may have been able to get country folk to understand 
the general drift of sentences containing many words 
whose sense they did not know. And indeed the late 
Hugh Miller maintains that sermons which are in a 
considerable degree over the heads of a rural congre- 
gation, are the most likely both to interest and impravo 
them. 

By this time, we doubt not, our readers are impatient 
of our remarks, and would like to hear Mr. Caird speak 
for himself. We proceed to give a more specific account 
of the contents of the volume. 



352 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

It contains eleven sermons, the fourth being divided 
into two parts, intended, we presume, to be preached at 
different times ; and a glance at the Table of Contents 
at once makes us suspect that the sermons have, with a 
view to publication, been materially changed from what 
they were when they were preached. Sermons in Scot- 
land, as in England, have a sort of average length, from 
which they do not deviate materially except on extra- 
ordinary occasions. But while Mr. Caird's first sermon 
occupies forty pages, the second occupies only twenty-five, 
the fourth twenty, and the fifth thirteen. The first ser- 
mon is thus three times as long as the fifth, and tw^ice 
as long as the fourth. So if the fifth sermon be of the 
standard Scotch length of three quarters of an hour, 
the first would occupy in the delivery two hours and a 
quarter. Or if the first sermon is to be taken as the 
standard, the fifth would crumple up into the "just 
fifteen minutes." 

The subject of the first sermon is The Self-evidencing 
Nature of Divine Truth ; its text is, " By manifestation 
of the truth commending ourselves to every man's con- 
science in the sight of God." (2 Cor. iv. 2.) It is a 
scholarly and masterly production ; but the thought 
which forms its staple is more severe than is usual in 
Mr. Caird's discourses. It is, in short, a view set out 
with consummate tact and ingenuity, of the internal evi- 
dence of the truth of the Christian religion. We should 
ask our university men and our clergy to read this ser- 
mon the first. They will find in it a strict and unerring 
logic, great skill in simplifying and illustrating abstract 
ideas, and a style which could scarcely be improved. 
But when we pass to the discourse wdiich stands next in 
order we find much clearer indications of the power of 
the popular orator. 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 353 

It is on Self-Ignorance ; the text, " Who can under- 
stand his errors." (Psalm xix. 12.) We almost wonder 
in reading the former sermon how Mr. Caird can be so 
popular ; but when we read this, more especially if we 
have heard Mr. Caird preach, and can imagine the 
fashion in which he would deliver many passages, we 
have less difficulty in understanding the matter. Plere 
is the introduction, which would arrest attention at 
once : — 

Of all kinds of ignorance, that which is the most strange, and, in so 
far as it is voluntary, the most culpable, is our ignorance of self. For 
not only is the subject in this case that which might be expected to 
possess for us the greatest interest, but it is the one concerning which 
we have amplest facilities and opportunities of information. Who of us 
would not think it a strange and unaccountable story, could it be told 
of any man now present, that for years he had harbored under his roof 
a ^^uest whose face he had never seen — a constant inmate of his home, 
who was yet to him altogether unknown ? It is no supposition how- 
ever, but an unquestionable fact, that to not a few of us, from the first 
moment of existence there has been present, not beneath the roof, but 
within the breast, a mysterious resident, an inseparable companion, 
nearer to us than friend or brother, yet of whom after all we know 
little or nothing. What man of intelligence amongst us would not be 
ashamed to have had in his possession for years some rare or univer- 
sally admired volume with its leaves uncut? or to be the proprietor of 
a repository filled with the most exquisite productions of genius, and 
the rarest specimens in science and art, which yet he himself never 
thought of entering? Yet surely no book so worthy of perusal, no 
chamber containing objects of study so curious, so replete with interest 
for us, as that which seldom or never attracts our observation — the 
book, the chamber of our own hearts. We sometimes reproach with 
folly those persons who have travelled far and seen much of distant 
countries, and jQi have been content to remain comparatively unac- 
quainted with their own. But how venial such folly compared with 
that of ranging over all other depaitments of knowledge, going abroad 
with perpetual inquisitiveness over earth and sea and sky, whilst there 
is a little world within the breast which is still to us an unexplored re- 
gion. Other scenes and objects we can study only at intervals: they 
are not always accessible, or can be reached only by long and laborious 



354 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

journeys; but the bridge of consciousness is soon crossed — we have 
but to close the eye and withdraw the thoughts from the world Avithout 
hi order at any moment to wander through the scenes and explore the 
phenomena of the still more wondrous world within. To examine 
other objects delicate and elaborate instruments are often necessary: 
the researches of the astronomer, the botanist, the chemist, can be pros- 
ecuted only by means of rare and costly apparatus ; but the power of 
reflection, that faculty more wondrous than any mechanism which art 
has ever fashioned, is an instrument possessed by all — the poorest and 
most illiterate alike with the most cultured and refined have at their 
command an apparatus by which to sweep the inner firmament of the 
soul, and bring into view its manifold phenomena of thought and feel 
ing and motive. And yet with all the unequalled facilities for acquir- 
ing this sort of knowledge, can it be questioned that it is the one sort of 
knowledge that is most commonly neglected, and that, even amongst 
those who would disdain the imputation of ignorance in history or 
science or literature, there are multitudes who have never acquired the 
merest rudiments of the knowledge of self ? 

By no means a far-fetched or difficult idea, the reader 
must see ; and turned in many lights and brought out by 
a throng of illustrations ; but a good and natural intro- 
duction to a sermon on self-ignorance, and quite sure, if 
given with a sort of exteni'pore air, as if each successive 
comparison struck the speaker just at the moment, to get 
the people to listen with great stillness. 

Then, restricting his view to the matter of a man's 
moral defects, Mr. Caird goes on to point out several 
reasons why the sinful man does not " understand his 
errors." The first is, that sin can be truly measured 
only when it is resisted. This principle indeed holds 
good of all forces : — 

The rapid stream flows smooth and silent when there are no obsta- 
cles to stay its progress; but hurl a rock into its bed, and the roar and 
surge of the arrested current will instantly reveal its force. You can- 
not estimate the wind's strength when it rushes over the open plain; 
but when it reaches and wrestles with the trees of the forest, or lashes 
the sea into fury, then, resisted, you perceive its power. Or if, amid 
the ice-bound regions of the north, an altogether unbroken continuous 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 355 

winter prevailed, comparatively unnoticed would be its stern domin- 
ion ; but it is the coming round of a more genial season, when the 
counteracting agency of the sun begins to prevail, that reveals, by the 
rending of the solid masses of ice, and by the universal stir and crash, 
the intensity of the bygone winter's cold. 

The second reason is, that sin often makes a man 
afraid to know himself. The third, that sinful habits 
steal on men slowly and gradually. The fourth, that as 
character gradually deteriorates, there is a parallel dete- 
rioration of the standard by which we judge it. Such 
are the " heads " of the sermon, as they are called in 
Scotland. They are all very clearly brought out and 
abundantly illustrated, and the sermon ends with a stir- 
ring " practical application." 

It is possible now to seek the peace of self-forgetfulness, — to refuse 
to be disturbed, — to sink for a little longer into our dream of self- 
satisfaction ; but it is a peace as transient as it is unreal. Soon, at the 
latest, and all the more terrible for the delay, the awakening must 
come. There are sometimes sad awakenings from sleep in this world. 
It is very sad to dream by night of vanished joys, — to revisit old 
scenes, and dwell once more among the unforgotten forms of our loved 
and lost, — to see in the dreamland the old familiar look, and hear the 
well-remembered tones of a voice long hushed and still, and then to 
wake with the morning light to the aching sense of our loneliness 
again. It were very sad for the poor criminal to wake from sweet 
dreams of other and happier days, — days of innocence, and hope, 
and peace, when kind friends, and a happy home, and an honored or 
unstained name were his, — to wake in his cell on the morning of his 
execution to the horrible recollection that all this is gone for ever, and 
that to-day he must die a felon's death. But inconceivably more 
awful than any awakening which earthly daybreak has ever brought, 
shall be the awakening of the self-deluded soul when it is roused in 
horror and surprise from the dream of life — to meet Almighty God 
in judgment! 

Of course all this has been very often said before; 
but probably those who heard Mr. Caird declaim these 
sentences, thought that it had never before been said so 
forcibly. 



356 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

The third sermon is upon Spiritual Influence, Its 
text is that passage in the Saviour's speech to Nicode- 
mus, " The wind bloweth where it listeth," &c. (S. John 
iii. 7, 8.) Here the preacher argues in defence of the 
Christian doctrine of Regeneration, maintaining that 
whatever difficulties surround that doctrine have their 
parallel in Nature. The " heads " here are three. Tim 
analogy between Nature and Revelation is traced .a re- 
gard to Supernaturalness, Sovereignty^ or apparent Arh 
trariness, and Secrecy. The gist of the first head is give^. 
in a sentence towards its close : — 

If not the slightest movement of matter can take place without thfl 
immediate agency of God, shall we wonder that His agency is needed 
m the higher and more subtle processes of mind ? 

The burden of the second head is given thus : — 

Marvel not nor be disquieted at your inability to explain the law3 
that regulate the operations of an infinite agent; for in a province 
much more within the range of human observation there are familiar 
agents at work, the operations of -which are equally inscrutable, arbi- 
trary, incalculable. Think it not strange that the ways of the Spirit 
of God are unaccountable to a mind by which even the common phe- 
nomena of the wind are irreducible to law. 

Then, under the third division of the discourse, Mr. 
Caird shows that the fact that the Holy Spirit works 
unseen is no reason for doubting that he does really 
act : — 

As 3''ou have surveyed the face of nature in some tranquil season,— 
the unbreathing summer noon or the hushed twilight hour, — every 
feature of the landscape has seemed suffused with calmness, every tree 
hung its motionless head, every unrippled brook crept on with almost 
inaudible murmuring, every plant, and flower, and leaf seemed as if 
bathed in repose. But anon you perhaps perceived a change passing 
over the scene, as if at the bidding of some invisible power; — a rush- 
ing sound, as of music evoked by invisible fingers from the harp of 
nature, began to fill j-our ear; the leaves began to quiver and rustle, 



CONCERNIXG A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 357 

the trees to bend and shake, the stream to dash onward with ruffled 
breast and brawling sound, and from every wood, and glade, and glen, 
there came forth the intimation that a new and most potent agent was 
abroad and working around you. And yet while you marked the 
change on the face of nature, did you perceive the agent that effected 
it? Did the wind of heaven take visible form and appear as a winged 
messenger of God's will, hurrying hither and thither from object to 
object? Do you know and can you describe the way in which he 
worked, — how his touch fell upon the flowret and bade it wave, or 
his grasp seized the sturdy oak and strove with it till it quivered and 
bent? No, you cannot. You have not penetrated so far into the se- 
crets of nature. You have seen only the effects, but not the agent or 
the process of his working. You have seen the wind's influences, but 
not itself. But do you therefore marvel, or hesitate to believe, that it 
has indeed been abroad and working over the face of the earth? or do 
vou ever doubt whether there be anv such acrent as the wind at all? 
No; you have heard the sound thereof, you have witnessed the stir 
and commotion of nattire that told of its presence, and so you believe 
in its existence, though you " cannot tell whence it cometh or whither 
it goeth." 

The three " heads " having been illustrated, the ser- 
mon is wound up by various practical inferences, given 
at considerable length. 

The fourth sermon is from the text, " No man hath 
seen God at any time ; the only -begotten Son, which 
is in the bosom of the Father, He hath declared him." 
(S. John i. 18.) It is divided into two parts, the subject 
of the former, being Tlie Invisible God, and that of the 
latter The Manifestation of the Invisible God. The 
preacher, having dwelt upon the fact that God is in- 
visible to human eyes, and shown that not without de- 
stroying the character of our present state of being as a 
state of trial and training could the case be otherwise ; 
goes on to show that the Saviour, by his person, his 
life and character, his sufferings and death, is a visible 
manifestation of the invisible God. 

We believe that this sermon, when preached, was a 



S58 COXCERXING A GKEAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

very effective one ; and probably the view which it sets 
out struck many ordinary hearers as novel and originaL 
It is not, however, necessary to tell the well-informed 
reader that Mr. Caird has here done nothing more than 
present, in a somewhat more popular and rhetorical 
form, the substance of a sermon upon the same text by 
Archbishop Whately, which, being detached from its text, 
is now published in the first series of the Archbishop's 
Essays.^ The reader will find it interesting to do what 
we have done since writing the last sentence, — to peruse 
the two sermons together, and compare them. The 
Archbishop's sermon was addressed to a learned audi- 
ence : it was preached before the University of Oxford ; 
and accordingly it is the more critical and philosophical. 
Mr. Caird intended his sermon to be preached to ordi- 
nary congregations, and accordingly he quotes no Greek, 
and lengthens out his remarks upon those parts of his 
subject which most admit of popular illustration. Some 
observations early in the discourse, on the Invisibility of 
the Almighty, appear to have been suggested by Letter 
YI. in Foster's Essay, On a Man writing Memoirs of 
Himself in which that topic is discussed with a power 
unparalleled in theological literature. And whoever 
wishes to find The Manifestation of the Invisible God 
through the personal Efedeemer set out in a very in- 
teresting fashion, may find it in the first two chapters 
of a book of so popular a character as Jacob Abbott's 
Corner-Stone, The view taken by Abbott is precisely 
that of Archbishop Whately, as may be inferred from the 
motto prefixed to the first chapter, which is, ^' The glory 

1 Essays on some of the Peculiarities of the Christian Religion. Es- 
Bay H. " On the Declaration of God in His Son," pp. 98-118. Edition 
of 1856. 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 359 

of God in the face of Jesus Christ." It does not appear, 
however, that Abbott was acquainted with the Archbish 
op's discourse. 

Ahhough we cannot give Mr. Caird the credit of hav- 
ing thought out the idea which is pressed in this sermon, 
still he is entitled to the praise of having grasped it with 
great force, and of having set it foith in a discourse 
which would produce a strong popular efifect. It must 
be said, however, that the style of this sermon is ambi- 
tious to a somewhat extravagant degree ; in taste and 
accui-acy it is very inferior to several of the other ser- 
mons in the volume. We should iudse it to have been 
a comparatively juvenile production, w^iich its author 
has got so fond of that he cannot now try it by the same 
severe standard as his recent compositions. And we are 
not sure it' the phrase, a woe that Deity could feel, con- 
tains very sound theology. Deity can feel nothing like 
woe. 

The sermon which comes next is, we think, one of the 
most eloquent in the book : it contains, perhaps, finer 
passages than any other. And although it is highly 
w^rought up in several parts, there is not a word in it to 
which the severest critic could take exception. It is on 
The Solitariness of Christ's Sufferings : the text, " I have 
trodden the wine-press alone." It sets out with the fol- 
lowing beautiful and natural introduction : — 

There is always a certain degree of solitude about a great mind. 
Even a mere human being cannot rise preeminently above the level of 
his fellow-men without becoming conscious of a certain solitariness of 
spirit gathering round him. The loftiest intellectual elevation, indeed, 
is nowise inconsistent with a genial openness and simplicity of nature, 
nor is there anything impossible or unexampled in the combination of 
a grasp of intellect that could cope with the loftiest abstractions of phil- 
osophy, and a playfulness that could condescend to sport with a child. 
Yet whilst it is thus true that the possessor of a great mind may be 



3 GO CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

capable of sympathizing with, of entering kindly into the views and 
feelings, the joys and sorrows of inferior minds, it must at the same 
time be admitted that there is ever a range of thought and feeling into 
whicli they cannot enter with him. They may accompan}' him, so to 
speak, a certain height up the mountain, but there is a point at which 
their feebler powers become exhausted, and if he ascend beyond that, 
his path must be a solitary one. 

What is thus true of all great minds must have been, beyond all 
others, characteristic of the mind of Him who, with all his real and 
very humanity, could *' think it no robbery to be equal with God.'* 
Jesus was indeed a lonely being in the world. With all the exquisite 
tenderness of his human sympathies, — touched with the feeling of our 
every sinless infirmity, — with a heart that could feel for a peasant's 
sorrow, and an eye that could beam with tenderness on an infant's face, 
— he was yet one who, wherever he went, and bj^ whomsoever sur- 
rounded, was, in the secrecy of his inner being, profoundly alone. You 
who are parents have, I dare say, often felt struck by the reflection, 
what a world of thoughts, and cares, and anxieties are constantly 
present to your minds into whrch your children cannot enter. You 
may be continually amongst them, holding familiar mtercourse with 
them, condescending to all their childish thoughts and feelings, enter- 
ing into all their childish ways, — yet every day there are a thousand 
things passing through j^our mind, with respect, for instance, to j^our 
business or profession, your schemes and projects, your troubles, fears, 
hopes and ambitions in life, your social connections, the incidents and 
events that are going on in the world around .you, — there are a thou- 
sand reflections and feelings on such matters passing daily through 
your mind, of which your children know nothing. You never dream 
of talking to them on such subjects, and they could not understand or 
sympathize with you if you did. There is a little world in which the 
play of their passions is strong and vivid, but beyond that their s}^!!- 
pathies entirely fail. And perhaps there is no spectacle so exquisitely 
touching as that which one sometimes witnesses in a house of mourn- 
ing — the elder members of the family bowed down to the dust by 
some heavy sorrow, whilst the little children sport around in uncon- 
scious playfulness. 

The bearing of this illustration is obvious. What children are to tho 
mature-minded man, the rest of mankind were to Jesus. ^ 

The preacher goes on to say that he-intends to follow 
out the thought of Christ's solitariness with particular 
reference to his sorrows. And he does so with eloquence 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 361 

SO impressive that we regret we can find room for no fur- 
ther specimens of it. 

We have not space to do more than mention the sub- 
jects of the remaining sermons which make up the vol- 
ume. The sermon which follows that on The Solitariness 
of Christ's Sufferings, is a sort of companion piece, on 
the text " Rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of the 
sufferings of Christ." (1 Peter iv. 13.) There is a dis- 
course on Spiritual Rest which we think less happy ; a 
very able one on the text, " I wish that thou mayest 
prosper and be in health even as thy soul prospereth," 
(3 John 2) ; another admirable sermon on " All things 
are yours," which Mr. Caird preached before the Queen 
last autumn. There is a temperate and judicious ser- 
mon on The Simplicity of Christian Ritual, in which the 
author cautions us against attaching too much consequence 
to such things as church architecture and stately church 
services. At the same time Mr. Caird describes these 
perilous delights with such manifest gusto, that it is quite 
obvious he would have no serious objections to the cathe- 
dral worship and to York Minster. It is indeed quite 
true that — 

There is a serai-sensuous delight in religious worship imposingly con- 
ducted, which may be felt by the least conscientious even more than by 
the sincerely devout. The soul that is devoid of true reverence to- 
wards God ma}' be rapt into a spurious elation while in rich and solemn 
tones the loud-voiced organ peals forth his praise. The heart that never 
felt one throb of love to Christ may thrill with an ecstasy of sentimental 
tenderness while soft voices, now blending, now dividing, in combined 
or responsive strains, celebrate the glories of redeeming love. And not 
seldom the most sensual and profligate of men have owned to that 
Btrange, undefined, yet delicious feeling of awe and elevation that steals 
over the spirit in some fair adorned temple on which all the resources 
of art have been lavished, where soft light floods the air and mystic 
shadows play over pillar and arch and vaulted roof, and the hushed 
and solenm stillness is broken only by the voice of prayer or praise. 



S62 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

All quite true ; but though no doubt such feeling as 
Mr. Caird describes is not religion, it may prepare the 
way for receiving impressions which are properly relig- 
ious. Nor can we evade the grand principle, that we 
ought to consecrate to the Almighty our very best in 
arcliitecture and in melody as in everything else, by the 
reflection that such things, like all others in this world, 
may be abused. And, by the way, Mr. Caird appears 
to have forgotten to tell his hearers that if worshippers 
in the south may mistake their sesthetic enjoyment of 
beautiful church- worship for true devotion, there is at 
least as much risk that worshippers farther north may 
confuse their enjoyment of the intellectual treat of listen- 
ing to impassioned and brilliant pulpit-oratory with a real 
reception of the great truths which are in such oratory 
set forth. If AngHcans must smash their stained-glass, 
board over their vaulted roofs, and turn off their cathe- 
dral choristers, then ought Mr. Caird to cut out his 
imagery, to destroy the rhythm of the last sentences of 
his paragraphs, and to cultivate a chronic sore-throat. 
If it be right for a clergyman to labor day and night to 
make his sermon beautiful, why not his church as well ? 
And if the church must be only moderately beautiful, 
then the preaching must not be obtrusively so. Does 
Mr. Caird mean to insinuate a covert assurance, that 
lowever pleasing and admirable his discourses may be, 
lie could, were it not for fear of exciting aesthetic emo- 
tion, make them a great deal better? 

The last sermon in the volume is on The Comparative 
Influence of Character and Doctrine, The text is " Take 
heed unto thyself, and unto the doctrine." (1 Tim. iv. 16.) 
And Mr. Caird, not perhaps with very critical accuracy, 
maintains that St. Paul, in writing that text, placed the 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. SGS 

two matters to be attended to in the order of their impor- 
tance : thus signifying that the life was of more moment 
than the instruction ; that it w^as the preacher's duty to 
take heed, first to himself, and secondly to his doctrine. 
Whether the general principle be implied in the text or 
not, there is no doubt it is a sound one ; and the sermoa 
enforces the old story, that example is better than precept, 
with extraordinary ability and eloquence. 

Thus have we endeavored, as regards these discourses of 
Mr. Caird, to do what we used to do every Sunday even- 
ing when we were children at home : to wit, to " give an 
account of the sermons." It was rather wearisome work 
then, w^e remember ; we trust our readers have not found 
it so now. Let us add, that fine as are these published 
sermons, w^e are not sure th^ they are Mr. Caird's best. 
Authors are proverbially bad judges of their own pro- 
ductions, and preachers are no exceptions to the rule. 
And we have heard from some of the author's warm ad- 
mirers fond recollections of sermons on the texts. Every 
man shall hear his own burden^ Surely I come quickly. 
There shall he no more pain, All things are hecome new, 
They have Moses and the prophets, let them hear them, — 
which are said to contain passages which for telling elfect 
upon a congregation are not equalled by anything in tlio 
printed volume. Perhaps the great preacher thought it 
as well not to give his followers the opportunity of ex- 
amining the red-hot shot afier it had grown cold. 

An amusing proof of Mr. Caird's great popularity is 
afforded by the number of young preachers who tiy to 
imitate him. And indeed it cannot be denied that sev- 
eral have succeeded in brushing their hair very like him. 
Others can walk up the pulpit-stalr very much as Mr 



864 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

Caird does. Several have a happy knack of wiping 
their face like him at the close of each " head," and more 
have successfully imitated some tones of his voice, and 
the manner in which he pronounces certain words which 
he pronounces ill. The general impression left on the 
mind by any imitator of Mr. Caird, is that of a very fat 
goose attempting to fly like an eagle. It may be sup- 
posed that only the weakest of the aspirants to the cleri- 
cal office will join the class of direct imitators. But Mr. 
Caird's success has had a powerful influence upon young 
men of a higher stamp, in leading them to cultivate a 
highly animated and impassioned kind of pulpit oratory. 
The calm unexciting elegance of a former age is at a dis- 
count in the North. Dr. Blair would preach to empty 
benches now. And it must be admitted that the standard 
of Scotch preaching is at th*s time a very high one. The 
sermon is so completely the great thing in the Scotch 
service, that extraordinary labor is often spent upon it. 
It would be easy to mention the names of a score of 
preachers who, if they were to sink as far as the Surrey 
Music Hall, could, without claptrap or buffoonery, com- 
pletely eclipse Mr. Spurgeon in the arts of popular ora- 
tory. Poor as is the worldly remuneration of the Scotch 
clergy, it is wonderful how the most able and accomplish- 
ed students in the Universities of Scotland are found to 
devote themselves to that ill-paid ministry. A, who was 
first all through the classes, goes into the church, fills sev- 
eral important charges with great ability, and dies at the 
age of fifty, worn down by labor and excitement, an 
Edinburgh minister with six hundred a year. B, whom 
he easily beat in every competition, goes to the Scotch 
bar, does pretty fairly, is made (by the Whigs) a judge, 
draws his three or four thousand jper annum, and by 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 365 

judiciously husbanding his bodily and mental energies, is 
able to adorn that high station to the age of eighty-six. 
In six months after A dies, the crowds he thrilled by his 
eloquence have entirely forgotten him. Yet possibly the 
work he did is remembered somewhere : and crowds of 
clever young lads in the academic shades of Edinburgh 
and Glasgow aim rather to be A than B. 

A great deal has of late been said and written about 
preaching. It seems to be agreed on all hands that it 
will no longer do to have sermons such that people cannot 
listen to them. Assuming sound instruction as present in 
all sermons, the highest of all remaining qualities of the 
sermon is interest. Whatever literary characteristics 
tend to make a sermon interesting^ are good ; and the 
very highest, if they make it uninteresting, are bad. Yet 
how great a proportion of the sermons one hears, — how- 
ever deserving in other respects, — are utterly devoid of 
the grand quality, interest. The sermons are able, well- 
thought, and well-written compositions, but they are very 
dry. Yet Sydney Smith's saying of literature in general 
holds especially good of pulpit literature, that every style 
is good, except the tiresome. We believe that church is 
the only place where people do not listen to what is said 
to them. " I like so much," said the laboring man in 
Southey's Doctor, " to go to church on Sunday : when 
the sermon begins I lean back in the corner, and lay up 
my legs, and think of nothing.^' We sympathize with that 
poor man. It is the clergyman's business to make his 
sermon such that while it is going on no one shall be able 
to " think of nothing." 

There are two things which from our earliest youth 
have in our mind stood out together as equally desirable, 



366 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

and in the nature of things equally impossible. The one 
is, to bring matters to such a point that it shall be pos- 
sible to get out of our snug warm bed on a cold winter 
morning without a very great effort ; the other is, that 
the service of the Church should be made such that it 
shall not be tiresome to be present at it. We believe 
that in the case of men in general the most insufferably 
tedious and w^earisome hours they have ever spent, have 
been many of those which they have spent at church. 

As to the prayers of the Anglican ritual, no doubt they 
are very beautiful, though with a calm scholarly beauty 
which makes no impression upon children or uneducated 
people. There are likewise by far too many of them ; 
and we are persuaded that if the truth were told, most of 
our readers have experienced that sense of relief we used 
to feel in our youth, when our -worthy pastor and master 
of those days reached that prayer of St. Chrysostom 
which signified that the long service was nearly over. 
We are not going to say anything of the devotional part 
of the Church service ; because we fear that no beauty 
and no brevity will ever make that portion of it interest- 
ing except to the sincerely devout ; and there we must 
leave the matter. But there is another part of the usual 
public worship which we really think need not be so hor- 
ribly tedious as it is in most cases, — we mean the ser- 
mon. When Edward Irving published a volume of 
discourses, instead of designating them by the usual 
name of sermons, he preferred to describe them on his 
title-page as Orations ; mentioning as his reason the well- 
ascertained fact, that there is something in the very name 
of sermon that makes people grow sleepy, and that sug 
gests dulness, yawning, and.tediousness to the last degree. 

We quite believe that in the nature of things it is 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 367 

properly impossible to render serious instruction as inter 
esting as light amusement. Disguise it as we can, work 
will never be made so attractive as play. Boys are in- 
stantly aware when it is intended to benefit them under 
the pretext of amusing them ; and the revulsion is instant 
and complete. When Dr. Chalmers said that the thing 
which above all others has tended to make EoKnson 
Crusoe such a favorite book with boys is, that no book 
combines to such a degree instruction with amusement, 
he made a statement just as absurd and false as if he had 
said that black was white. But while we admit all this, 
we believe that the pill may be gilded so far, and that 
sermons need not be nauseous as medicines are, and never 
to be listened to but by a conscious effort and as an irk- 
some task. 

He would be a benefactor of his race who should suc- 
ceed in laying down a code of rules, by obeying which 
men of ordinary ability might succeed in preparing and 
preaching sermons, which should be interesting to an 
ordinary congregation, and at the same time character- 
ized by good sense and good taste. These two ends 
have hardly ever been attained together. There are 
numbers of sensible and correct preachers, whom no 
one can listen to for ten minutes without becoming aware 
of that peculiar pricking of the veins, and disposition to 
fidget uneasily, which are associated with the last degree 
of weariness. There is really such a thing as acute tedi- 
ousness. And of the much smaller number of pulpit 
orators who succeed systematically in keeping the atten- 
tion of their congregations thoroughly alive from the 
beginning to the end of their discourses, most, if not all, 
deal to a great degree in what may be termed claptrap. 
Their sermons are often outrageously revolting to men 



368 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

of refined taste, or filled with views which are extrava- 
gant and absurd. 

It is a great end to get an entire congregation to listen 
with interested attention from first to last of a sermon ; 
but this end may be attained at too considerable an ex- 
pense. One can easily think of various expedients that 
v\'ould for a time attract a crowd, and get it to gaze stu- 
pidly for an hour. A person from America preached 
some time since in some dissenting meeting-house in this 
country, arrayed in skins and feathers as an Indian chief. 
He was described as a war-chief of the Somethingoroth- 
erawaws, and vast crowds, with visions of scalping-knives 
and wampum-belts, came to hear him, till it was under- 
stood that he was only a porter at a steamboat wharf on 
the Mississippi, and that his strange attire would have 
excited much more surprise in his native place than it 
did at Manchester. A small boy of nine or ten years 
old was advertised to preach in a large building in Glas- 
gow ; and to the disgrace of that town some three or four 
thousand people crowded to hear him on more occasions 
than one. An individual calling himself the Angel Ga- 
briel, held large assemblages of the Modern Athenians in 
breathless attention by preaching with a trumpet in his 
hand, which he sounded at the end of each paragraph of 
his sermon. The usual tedium of a church would be 
dissipated were the officiating clergyman to turn a som- 
ersault at intervals. Any wretched mountebank may keep 
attention alive by shrieks and yells, rushings about his 
platform, imitations of the Yankee snuffle or the gibberish 
of Cockayne, — in short, by degrading the pulpit beneath 
the level of the stage of a minor theatre. But the ques- 
tion is, how may a man, without sinking the clergyman, 
the scholar, and the gentleman, — without becoming a 



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 369 

buffoon or a melodramatic actor, — without eccentricity 
in the choice of texts and topics, in illustration or gesture, 
— make a sermon as interesting and attractive as in the 
nature of things religion^ instruction can be made. 

There is one obvious rule which is very generally vio- 
lated : a preacher should take some pains to make his 
meaning intelligible. Many a clergyman who would not 
think of giving orders to his man-servant in terms which 
that person could not by possibility understand, is yet 
accustomed every Sunday to address a rustic congrega- 
tion in discourses which would be just as intelligible to it 
if they were preached in Hebrew. Let a preacher be 
direct and straightforward : let him avoid roundabout 
sentences ; they are much more puzzling to the dull 
brain of a country bumpkin than are mere big words : 
let him put his meaning sharply and clearly. • lYe be- 
lieve that this is a great secret of interest. We might 
suggest the abundant use of illustration which really 
illustrates the subject ; but every preacher has not the 
faculty which enables him to use this arm. Compari- 
sons drawn from daily life are a tower of force. And 
we strongly recommend to all young clergymen whose 
pulpit manner is not yet hopelessly formed, the reading 
of a good deal of light literature. They should read 
that to see what kind of matter interests the majority 
of minds. Most preachers have a thoroughly mistaken 
notion on that point. A man who has brought himself 
to feel a deep interest in dry tomes of old Theology, or 
even in the more flimsy popular theological literature of 
the day, forgets that the human race in general takes no 
interest in such things*; and fancies that w^hen producing 
thought which he knows or thinks w^ould interest himself, 
he is all right. He is far mistaken ! Who reads Theol- 
24 



370 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 

ogy by choice ? Ask the pubhsher of ordinary sermons. 
Let the preacher, then, make himself familiar with the 
kind of thought and style which people read because 
attracted and interested by it. We do not say that he 
should take that for his model, or imitate it in any way. 
But let him see there what sort of pabulum suits the 
common appetite ; and let him aim at making his ser- 
mons if possible as easy and pleasant to be listened to 
as that is to be read. We believe that the main cause 
why sermons are so dull is that their writers do not se- 
riously set it as a worthy aim to make them inteiest- 
ing. Most preachers — if we except those whose end 
is simply to cover their paper with the least possible 
trouble — aim at completeness of treatment, at elegance 
of style, at scholarly tone and finish, — all ends quite 
apart from the great end of interest. If interest were 
systematically made the great object of endeavor; if 
clergymen remembered that unless they get their con- 
gregation to listen to them, they might as well not preach 
at all, — we are convinced, with average talent and aver- 
age industry on the preacher's part, there would be fewer 
dry sermons and fewer sleepers in church. 



CHAPTER XIII. 



OULITA THE SERF.i 




HIS volume has no preface, and no notes 
save two or three of a line's length each. 
Its title-page bears nothing beyond the 
words, Oulita the Serf ; a Tragedy, But 
the advertisements which foretold its publication, added 
a fact which made us open the book with a very different 
feeling from that with w^hich we should have taken up an 
ordinary anonymous play, — a fact which at once excited 
high expectations, — and which, we doubt not, has al- 
ready introduced Oulita to a wide circle of readers, each 
prepared to gauge its merits by a very severe test and a 
very high standard. The forthcoming volume was an- 
nounced as Oulita the Serf; a Tragedy: by the Author 
of " Friends in Council^ 

The disguise of the author of that work is becoming 
ragged. We have found, in more than one library, where 
a special glory of binding was bestow^ed upon the book 
and its charming sequel, that though the title-page bore 
no name, the volumes were marked with a name w hich 
is well and honorably known. And indeed there are 
few books which are so calculated as Friends in Council 
to make the reader wish to know who is their author : 



1 Oulita the Serf. A Tragedy. 
Son. 1858. 



London: John W. Parker ani 



372 OULITA THE SERF. 

and surely the language has none which affords its writer 
less reason for seeking any disguise. Yet it is not for us 
to add the author's name to a title-page which the author 
has chosen to send nameless into the world : though wo 
may be permitted to say, that in common with an increas- 
ing host of readers, we cannot think of him as other than 
a kindly and sympathetic friend. 

Accordingly, we expected a great deal from this new 
work. We were not entirely taken by surprise, indeed, 
when we saw it announced ; for Ellesmere, in Friends in 
Council, makes several quotations from the works of " a 
certain obscure dramatist," which are likely to set the 
thoughtful reader inquiring. And whoever shall care- 
fully collate the advertisements of the late Mr. Picker- 
ing's publications, will discover that the author of Oulita 
published fifteen years ago a historical drama, entitled 
King Henry the Second ; and a tragedy entitled Cather- 
ine Douglas, whose heroine is the strong-hearted Scottish 
maiden who thrust her arm into the staple of a door from 
which the bolt had been removed, in the desperate hope 
of thus retarding for a moment the entrance of the con- 
spirators who murdered James the First. But these 
plays are comparatively unknown ; and probably very 
many readers who have been delighted by that graceful, 
unaffected prose, were quite unaware that its writer was 
endowed with the faculty of verse. We could not fail, 
indeed, to discern in his prose w^orks the wide, genial 
sympathy, the deep thoughtfulness, the delicate sensitive- 
ness, of the true poet. And his talent, w^e could also 
discover from these, is essentially dramatic. The char- 
acters in Friends in Council have each their marked 
individuality ; while yet that individuality is maintained 
and brought out, not by coarse caricature, but by those 



OULITA THE SERF. 373 

delicate and natural touches which make us feel that we 
are conversing with real human beings, and not with 
mere names in a book. It is an extremely easy thing 
to make us recognize a character when he reappears 
upon the stage, by making him perpetually repeat some 
silly and vulgar phrase. Smith is the man who never 
enters without roaring " It's all serene : " Jones is the 
individual who always says, "Not to put too fine a point 
upon it." Nor is it difficult for an author to tell us that 
his hero is a great man, a philanthropist, a thinker, an 
actor : it is quite another matter to make him speak and 
act so that we shall find that out for ourselves. Most 
characters in modern works need to be labelled ; — like 
the sign-painter's lion, which no one would have guessed 
was a lion but for the words This is a lion, written be- 
neath it. 

Let us say at once, that this tragedy has surpassed 
our expectation. It is a noble and beautiful work. It is 
strongly marked with the same characteristics which dis- 
tinguish its author's former writings. Its power* and ex- 
cellence are mainly in thoughtfulness, pathos, humor. 
There is a certain subtlety of thought, — a capacity 
gradually to surround the reader with an entire world 
and a complete life : we feel how heartily the writer 
has thrown himself into the state of things he describes, 
half believing the tale he tells, and using gently and ten- 
derly the characters he draws. We have a most interest- 
ing story : we see before us beings of actual flesh and 
blood. We do not know whether the gentle, yet resolute 
Oulita, — the Princess Marie, that spoiled child of for- 
tune, now all wild ferocity, and now all soft relenting, — • 
the Count von Straubenheim, that creature of passion so 
deep yet so slow, so calm upon the surface, yet so im- 



374 OULITA THE SERF. 

petuous in its under-currents, — ever lived save in the 
fancy of the poet : but to us they are a reality, — far more 
a reality than half the men who have lived and died in 
fact, but who live on the page of history the mere blood- 
less life of a word and an abstraction. We find in this 
tragedy the sharp knowledge of life and human nature 
for which we were prepared : a certain tinge of sadnes 
and resignation which did not surprise us : a kindly yet 
sorrowful feeling towards the very worst, which we are 
persuaded comes with the longer and fuller experience 
of the strange mixture of the lovable and the hateful 
which is woven into the constitution of the race. Here 
and there, we find the calm, self-possessed order of thought 
with which we have elsewhere grown familiar, gradually 
rise into eloquent energy, and vigor of expression which 
startles. But the hero is not one who raves and stamps. 
And indeed the fastidious taste of the writer, shrinking 
instinctively from the least trace of coarseness or extrav- 
agance, has perhaps resulted in a little want of the terrible 
passion of tragedy : for we can well believe that many 
an expression, and many a sentiment, which, heard just 
for once from eloquent lips, would thrill even the most 
refined, would be struck out by the remorseless pen, or 
at least toned down, when calmly, critically, and repeat- 
edly read over by such an author as ours, when the fever 
of creative inspiration was past. We remark, as a char- 
acteristic of the plot, and a circumstance vitally affecting 
the order of its interest, that the catastrophe is involved 
in the characters of the actors. It is not by the arbitrary 
appointment of the author, that things run in the course 
they do. There is something of the old Greek sense of 
the inevitable. We feel from the beginning that the end 
is fixed as fate. Like Frankenstein, the poet has bodied 



OULITA THE SERF. 375 

out beings whom he has not at his command : and not 
without essentially changing their natures, could he mate- 
rially modify what they say and do, or materially alter the 
path along which they advance to the precipice in the 
distance. Given such beings, placed in Russian life and 
under Russian government : and not without a jarring 
sacrifice of truthfulness could the story advance or end 
otherwise than as it does. 

The language of the tragedy is such as might have 
been expected from its author. There is not a phrase, 
not a word from first to last, to w^hich the most fastidious 
taste could take exception. So much might be antici- 
pated by readers familiar with the author's prose style : 
but we felt something of curiosity as to how it might 
adapt itself to the altered conditions of verse. Even 
those readers who w^ere not aware that the author of 
Friends in Council had ever before published poetry, 
might well judge that surely these lines, so easy, so 
flowing, so little labored, so varied in their rhythm, so 
uncramped by metrical requirements, are not the pro- 
duction of an unpractised hand. Parts of the dialogue 
are in prose ; the larger portion is in blank verse ; and 
some graceful lyrics occur here and there. A pecu- 
liarity of the author's blank verse is, that the lines fre- 
quently end in three short syllables. Our readers are 
of course aware that both in rhymed and blank verse, 
double endings of lines are very common : in dramatic 
blank verse, indeed, we find line after line exhibiting this 
formation : ^ but we are not aware that any author has 

1 To be, or not to be, that is the question: 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune^ 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, &c. 



S76 OULITA THE SERF. 

employed the triple ending to the same degree, or indeed 
has employed it at all except on very rare occasions. In 
the first page, we find it said that the end of government 
should be, not to govern overmuch, but 

To make men do with the least show of governing. 
Other examples are, 

In foreign Courts 'tis eveiything, ih.\s precedence. 
From trappings overgreat for poor humanity. 
E'en to yourself must be unknown your benejiis. 
Alone and undisturbed, upon her loveliness. 

And there is one instance of an ending in four shoii 
syllables : — 

In evidence against us. marking preparation, 

"We have been interested by finding here and there, 
throughout the tragedy, several thoughts upon matters 
more or less important, with which we had become ac- 
quainted in the writer's former works. It is plain that 
the writer thinks the discomfort arising from fashions of 
dress a not insignificant item in the tale of human suflfer- 
ino: : he would a^rree with Teufelsdrockh himself as to 
the undeserved neglect in which men have held the 
" philosophy of clothes." We find the men-servants at 
a Bovard Prince's chateau busilv enea^ed in tryins: on 
their new liveries, which have been prepared for a grand 
occasion. The Prince enters, and finds but little progress 
made. He rares his domestics for their slowness ; where- 
upon the •• Small Wise Man,'*' a dwaif attached to his es- 
tablishment, thus excuses his fellows: — 

Oh! the happv peasants are so uncomfortable, my little tather. in 
their happy new clothes, that they put off the squeezing themselves 
into them to the last moment. It's a nice thing a new shoe, now; and 
not so ven- unlike a marriagej my little mother. 



OULITA THE SERF. 377 

The author had thought upon this subject before : — 

My own private opinion is, that the discomfort caused by injudicious 
aress, worn entirely in deference to the most foolish of mankind, would 
outweigh many an evil that sounds very big. Tested by these perfect 
returns, which I imagine might be made by the angelic world, if they 
regard human affairs, perhaps our every-day shaving, severe shirt- 
collars, and other ridiculous garments, are equivalent to a great Euro- 
pean war once in seven years; and we should find that women's stays 
did as much harm, i. e. caused as much suffering, as an occasional pes- 
t:lence, — say, for instance, the choleia.^ 

In graver mood, we find something of the philosophy 
of worldly progress and quietude, in words which sug- 
gest (how truly) that the man who would get on in life 
had better not think to carve out a way for himself, but 
should rather keep to the track which many other feet 
have beaten into smoothness and firmness. The hero of 
the tragedy says, — 

To preserve one's quietude. 
It needs that one should travel in the ruts 
That form the ordinary road, for else 
The wheels stick fast. 

The analogy is so apt and true, that it had previously 
suggested itself : — 

Get, if you can, into one or other of the main grooves of human af- 
fairs. It is all the difference of going by railway, and walking over a 
ploughed field, whether j^ou adopt common courses, or set one up for 
yourself. You will see very inferior persons highly placed in the army, 
in the church, in office, at the bar. They have somehow got upon the 
line, and have moved on well with very little original motive power 
of their own.*2 

We find that the author, very naturally, makes his hero 
express tastes which he himself feels strongly. One of 

1 Companions of my Solitude. Chap. III. And see the same sub- 
ject discussed in the essay on Conformity^ in Chap. II. of Fnends in 
Council. 

2 Ibid. Chap. IV. 



378 OULITA THE SERF. 

these tastes, which appears repeatedly in his former writ* 
ings, is for woodland scenery. " There is scarcely any- 
thing in nature," he says, " to be compared with a pine- 
wood." Once, in approaching a certain continental city, 
the author passed through what the guide-books described 
as a most msipid country. But the guide-books did not 
know what w^ere his personal likings ; leaving his car- 
riage at the little post-house, he walked on, promising 
to be in the way when it should overtake him. 

The road led through a wood, chiefly of pines, varied, however, 
occasionally by other trees. Into this wood I strayed. There was 
that almost indescribably soothing noise (the Romans would have 
used the word susurrus), the aggregate of many gentle movements of 
gentle creatures. The birds hopped but a few paces off as I approached 
them : the brilliant butterflies wavered hither and thither before me : 
there was a soft breeze that day, and the tops of the tall trees swayed 
to and fro politely to each other. I found many delightful resting- 
places. It was not all dense wood; but here and there were glades 
(such open spots I mean as would be cut through by the sword for an 
army to pass); and here and there stood a clump of trees of different 
heights and foliage, as beautifully arranged as if some triumph of the 
art of landscape had been intended, though it was only Nature's 
way of healing up the gaps in the forest. For her healing is a new 
beauty, i 

Thus speaks the author in his own person : and his 
hero passing alone through a wood, speaks as follows : — 

I ever loved a wood ; and here I 've mused, 
Pressing with lightest footfall the crisp leaves, 
In boyhood's days, when life seemed infinite, 
And every fitful sound a song of joy. 
Great is the sea, but tedious ; rich the sun, 
But one gets tired of him, too; joyous the wind, 
But boisterous and intrusive ; — while, the wood 
Divides the sun, and air, and sky; and, like 
A perfect woman, naught too much revealed, 
Nor aught too much concealing. 

1 CoTupanions of my ISoUttide, Chap. VI. 



OULITA THE SERF. 379 

We shall be content to quote one other instance of 
parallelism, in the notice given to a matter which every 
one who lives in a wooded district must often have re- 
marked in his woodland wanderings. The hero of the 
tragedy is asked to tell of what he has been thinking, as 
he has been travershig the w^ood which he enjoys so 
much : here is his reply : — 

Mere melancholy thoughts, fit for a servitor: 
How this tree here hemmed in its puny neighbor, 
Drinking the air and light from it ; how that, 
The vagrant branches into shapes grotesque 
Constrained, insisted yet on being beautiful. 
And like a homely girl with one charm only, 
Took care to make that charm discernible. 

In saying this, the hero of the play is repeating what 
had before been said by its author. And it appears to us 
an indication of the lifelike reality with which the author 
depicted to himself the man whom he drew as he paced 
along, looking at the gray stems and the long grass below, 
and the green leaves and blue glimpses of sky above : — 

Yes, Ellesraere, my love for woods is unabated. There is so much 
largeness, life, and variety in them. Even the way in which the trees 
interfere with one another, the growth which is hindered, as well as 
that which is furthered, appears to me most suggestive of human life ; 
and I see around me things that remind me of governments, churches, 
sects, and colonies. 

We should not be doing justice to Oulita, if we failed 
to remark, as something singular in these days, that it is 
a purely and perfectly original work. Its author has 
constructed his own plot, and imagined his own charac- 
ters It is very well for writers who have no higher aim 
than to supply the immediate exigencies of the stage, to 
quarry in the abundant mine of French invention ; and 
to copy, borrow, or adapts as the phrase now runs. But 



380 OULITA THE SERF. 

we should have been greatly surprised had the author of 
Friends in Council resorted to that cheap method of 
producing a dramatic work. It cannot be denied that 
several dramatic writers of the day have shown consid- 
erable tact in toning French characters and modifying 
French plots, till they should hit the English taste, and 
not sound absurdly upon English ground. But to do that 
is a hnach, a sort of intellectual sleight of hand : it argues 
no invention, no dramatic genius : it comes rather of much 
practical acquaintance with the tricks and effects of the 
theatre. The author of this play has essayed a higher 
flight. He has resolved to give the English stage a 
really original . work : and holding firmly, as w^e know 
from his former w^ritings, that some kind of amusement 
is a pure necessary of life, and that there is in human 
nature an instinctive leaning to the dramatic as a source 
of amusement, he has sought to show, by example, that 
without becoming namby-pamby, — without making the 
well-intentioned degenerate into the twaddling, — and 
without making the great school-boys of mankind scent 
the birch-rod and the imposition under the disguise of 
cricket-bats and strawberry tarts, — it is possible to make 
a play such as that in amusing it shall also instruct, re- 
fine, and elevate. It is not by coarsely tacking on a 
moral to a tragedy that you will enforce any moral teach- 
ing. You must so wrap up the improving and instruc- 
tive element in the interesting and attractive, that the 
mass of readers or listeners shall never know when they 
have overstepped the usually well-marked limit that parts 
work and play. And w^e think that the author of Oulita 
has succeeded in this. A refreshing and elevating in- 
fluence sinks into the mind, like a shower upon a newly- 
mown lawn, as we read his pages. You feel, but cannot 



OULITA THE SERF. 3S\ 

define it. But many worthy people would cram improve- 
ment, a thick porridge, down their humbler neighbors' 
throats, — like Mrs. Squeers's treacle and sulphur. 

As the reader would expect from the title of the book, 
the scene of the tragedy is in Russia. Its time is the 
beginning of the present century. And the author has, 
in virtue of his hearty sympathy with humanity under all 
conditions, thrown himself completely into Russian life, 
and brought liis readers into an entire world of scenes, 
things, and men and women. Yet, though the scene be 
in Russia, and though we know from his other works how 
much the author hates slavery, we find proof of the calm 
balance of his mind in the fashion in which he represents 
serfdom. His honesty will not permit him to coarsely 
daub his picture for the sake of popular effect, or to rep- 
resent the " peculiar institution " as more glaringly bad 
than he has ground for believing it practically is, in or- 
der to render it more abhorrent to our feeling. Nor do 
we find any violent exhibition of despotic sway. We do 
not believe that the author would sympathize in the least 
with the childish cry for Imperialism which lately arose 
in this country. We trust the nation has passed through 
that crisis, like a child through the cow-pox, and that we 
are fairly done with it. Still, in the play, the Emperor 
of Russia is represented in a very favorable light, as kind- 
hearted, accessible, willing to listen to reason, and even 
to accusation of himself ; and though autocratic, yet en- 
chained by an overmastering and tyrannic sense of what 
is right and just, which drags him against his dearest 
wishes. We have said that there is no putting of serf- 
dom in its coarser and more repellent features. Oulita^ 
the Serf, is the pride and pet of the old Prince to whom 
she belongs ; and the chosen companion and friend of 



382 OULITA THE SERF. 

the Princess Lis daughter. No cruelties are described 
as actually inflicted upon any serf in the course of the 
action of the drama : — we can imagine that the sensi- 
tive nature of the author would shrink from any such 
description : yet we feel keenly the hard iron links which 
are present beneath the soft velvet surface. We never 
entirely forget the difference that parts the serf, however 
indulged, from the freeman, however degraded. The 
gentle confidante is liable to be handed over, at the capri- 
cious word of her spoiled-child mistress, to the execution- 
er's lash. And the naturally noble heart of the Princess 
is well-nigh ruined by the long possession of unlimited 
power. We are not sure but that to the thoughtful 
reader, serfdom is made as incurably bad in this volume, 
as it could have been in the picture of a Legree. The 
way to make us feel that a thing is hopelessly bad, is to 
show us that it is bad at its very best. If it be a sad 
thing to be in bondage to a mild, silly old gentleman who 
would not hurt a fly, and to a warm-hearted girl who 
kisses more than she scolds, — what must it be when the 
whip is in the hand of a coarse, brutal, swearing, drunken 
reprobate ! 

The first scene of the tragedy shows us Baron Griib- 
ner, the Russian Minister of Police, seated at his desk 
in his bureau at St. Petersburg. He is inveighing 
against the Count Von Straubenheim, who is on terms 
of intimate friendship with the Emperor, and who has 
been instilling into the autocrat's mind certain political 
doctrines of much too advanced a character for Griib- 
ner's taste. Griibner is the type of the old Continental 
politician : the Count belongs to the school of progress ; 
and Griibner, fearing lest the Count's influence with the 
Emperor should bring to an end the reign of police ad- 



OULITA THE SERF. 383 

ministration, has organized a system of espionage, in the 
hope of detecting the Count in some proceeding which 
may lead to his downfall We feel, at once, that the 
ground is mined beneath our feet, and that we are in 
a region over which broods the unseen but all-seeing 
presence of a secret police. We never escape the feel- 
ing on to the end of the play. A spy enters, and informs 
Griibner that the Emperor again receives the obnox« 
ious Count that evening. The vulgar spy has his infor- 
mation from a certain baroness, a spy of a higher class. 
The spy leaves, and Griibner thus goes on : — 

Far into 
The distant future this wise man looked forward, 
And saw a time, he told the Emperor, 
When half the world would not employ itself 
In worrying the other half. Great sage ! 
He meant that for a sneer at the Police ; 
And when good honest men would not sit down 
At meat with titled spies — that means the Baroness ; 
Or with the men who pay them — that means me. 

Another spy enters, one Ermola'i, whom Griibner has 
got into the Count's employ as his secretary, to maintain 
a constant watch over his private doings. Ermolai com- 
plains that his post is a sinecure. There is nothing to 
report. The Count spends all his time in reading. He 
reads theology. That, Grubner thinks, is an important 
point. If the Count succeeds in indoctrinating the Em- 
peror with his theories, down goes Grubner, and with him 
(of course he is a most disinterested man) Russia. The 
Count, Griibner says, is to be married : so the Empeior 
and he have resolved : then he is to go as ambassador to 
England, w^here he will probably make some mistake thai 
will ruin him, or at least where he wmH be beyond the 
Emperor's reach. Grubner dismisses Ermola'i, ordering 



884 OULITA THE SERF. 

him to maintain a most minute watch, and chuckles at 

his own skill in getting the Count to take a police tool 

for his secretary. 

The second scene carries us to the Count von Strau- 

benheim's library. He is among his favorite books. He 

lays down his volume, and muses as follows ; — 

One reads, and reads, and reads : one seldom gets 

Right into the heart of things — there's so much floss 

And flufi' ; and few can tell what they do know. 

Long histories : weary biographies : 

They only teach us what I partly guessed 

Before — that men were most times miserable, 

And simple thoroughly, wasting their souls 

In plaguing other men, and seldom living 

What I call life — an ugly dream it is; 

And yet, with all my faculty for sarcasm, 

I must confess that men, the worst of men, 

This scoundrel horde of conquerors, for instance, 

Have something very lovable about them. 

The deeper that one goes, the more one's pity 

Falls like a gentle snow upon the plain 

Flooded with blood, and strewed with cruel carnage 

Leaving the outlines beautiful, and just 

Concealing what 'twere better never had 

Been done — concealing only, not erasing : 

*Tis a mixed brood. 

We speedily find that the recluse student is not so 
simple after all. He knows all about Ermolai being a 
spy upon him. He sends for Ermolai : says he is about 
to marry the beautiful daughter of Prince Lanskof. Er 
molai discourages the marriage, and says, — 

I've heard a saying 
Of some sagacious world-versed man, — that marriage 
Must be pronounced a thing so hazardous. 
The odds so much against one, that it were 
As if a man should dip his hand within 
A bag of snakes, where one eel lies concealed; 
And mostly he draws back his injured hand .. 

Without the innocent eel. 



OULITA THE SERF. 385 

The Count is anxious to repudiate any notion save 
of a prosaic marriage of convenience ; but at the same 
time he beautifully depicts what he says he never had 
felt : — 

I have a distant notion of what love 

Might be. I know the dreams about the thing. 

That there is one whose every look and word 

Is fascination, graceful as the clouds, 

Bright as the morn, and tender as the eve, — 

Whose lightest gesture, as she moves across 

The room, seems like a well-known melody, — 

And whom you need not talk to much, for that's 

The touchstone, — to whom you've nothing to explain, 

Because she always thinks too well of you. 

In answer to the Count's question where he shall find 
such a paragon, the Secretary mentions the name of the 
singing-girl at Moscow, Oulita. The Count remembers 
her well. But he speedily passes to talk of the embassy 
to England ; and then bids Ermola'i prepare a sumptuous 
retinue for his visit to the chateau of Prince Lanskof, 
the father of his intended bride. Errpola'i goes : and then 
we learn from a speech of the Count's that he is quite 
aware that the marriage and embassy are a design of 
Griibner's to compass his ruin. But he will fight Griibner 
with his own weapons. He will pluck from his bosom 
the remembrance of Oulita, wed the Princess, come back 
with credit from his embassy, and do good to his country. 
If he shall succeed, well. And if not, life is already as 
dull as it well can be. 

We next find ourselves in the hall of Prince Lanskof 's 
chateau. The servants are trying on their new liveries : 
the dancing-girls are practising their steps. The " Small 
Wise Man," a dwarf belonging to the Prince, a jester of 
more than usual jest, and deeper than ordinary wisdom, 
25 



386 OULITA THE SERF. 

makes his first appearance. All is bustle : the Count is 
to arrive in three hours. Oulita appears along with the 
PrincesF, the latter promising her that she shall not have 
to join in the dances. The Prince drills his domestics 
in a manner that reminds us of Mr. Hardcastle in She 
Stoops to Conquer. He is a fussy, silly old gentleman, 
proud of his daughter, and picturing the grand figure 
she is to make at the English Court as the Russian am- 
bassadress. 

Meanwhile Oulita has strayed into a wood near the 
chateau ; and there the Count, who has chosen to dismiss 
his retinue and walk through the wood alone, hears her 
well-remembered voice as she sings. The Count accosts 
her with some light badinage, of which Oulita has the 
best. Then they talk more gravely. Mitchka, the ex- 
ecutioner at the chateau, watches them from behind a 
tree. Oulita recognizes in the Count the man who fol- 
lowed her about at Moscow. He tells her that he came 
in the Count's train. 

Then we are carried to the hall at the chateau, where 
the Small Wise Man is addressintr the servants. He 

o 

speaks from a barrel, on which he is seated : — 

The illustrious Count Von Straubenheim, who, with our permission, 
is about to marry into our family, intends to give to every member of 
the household — something which shall be good for him : great guer- 
don, liberal largesse. For you Melchior, Nicholas, and Petrovitch 
(pointing out three fat men), he intends to ask for a week's fast, and 
three weeks' out-of-door's work in the woods. For you, Theodore, a 
sound scourging at the hands of gentle Mitchka, that you may know 
how to manage your horses better, and what are the feelings of an 
animal when it is whipped. For you, Dimitri, our illustrious son-in- 
law has thought deeply, and intends to ask the Prince to have youi 
wife brought home from his other estate, because you always lived so 
happily together. 

No wonder that the Small Wise Man held his own in 



OULITA THE SERF. 387 

that household. We doubt not the servants feared his 
tongue nearly as much as Mitchka's scourge. 

The Prince, Princess, and their attendants enter ; as 
do the Count, Ermolai, and their people. The Small 
Wise Man catechizes the Count in a jocular manner as to 
his qualifications for marrying and becoming ambassador ; 
and when the Count and Prince go together to the ban- 
quet, he muses in a very different strain. He is pleased 
with the Count's appearance : — 

A noble presence and a thoughtful eye, 
But sad. 

And Oulita entering, he speaks to her wisely and kindly, 
in a fashion which reveals strongly to us the grand want 
which every thoughtful serf must never cease to feel. 
" Study to get free, girl," he says ; " free, free, free, free ! " 
We now overhear a conversation between the execu- 
tioner Mitchka, and Vasili Androvitch, Prince Lanskofs 
steward ; from which we find that the steward has prom- 
ised to pay Mitchka three thousand roubles if he can 
catch Oulita in any fault which may bring her under his 
lash. The steward's hope is, that in such a case he may 
compel Oulita to become his wife, as the reward of his 
procuring her pardon. Vasili is quite aware that Oulita 
hates him ; but that does not matter, in his estimation. 
In the crowd of dancers in the hall, the Count again 
meets Oulita : a confidence has grown up fast between 
them, and she tells her longing to be free. The Count 
declares that she. shall be, and gives Oulita his ring as a 
pledge. He has mingled unnoted with the throng in the 
hall, and Oulita is still unaware who he is. But she tells 
js she feels entranced and bewildered. 

Meanwhile the Count seeks Ermolai, and has an ex- 



388 OULTTA THE SERF. 

planation with him. Ermolai is startled to find that the 
Count has been quite aware that he was a spy of Griib- 
ner's, and is penetrated with renaorse at the thought that, 
while aware of all this, the Count saved him from drown- 
ing hi the Neva. He always loved the Count ; and from 
this time forward he is his faithful ally and friend. The 
Count tells him he loves Oulita, and is determined to 
make her free. He has thought of several plans. An 
adroit serf, Stepan, disguised as a merchant, will come to 
buy her. That scheme failing, the Count's servants are 
to create some great alarm, and bear her off in the tu- 
mult. Meanwhile there is to be a great hunt of several 
days' duration. Ermolai is to remain behind : to send for 
Stepan, for money, for horses of the Ukraine breed : to 
watch Mitchka, to grow familiar with every corner of the 
huge chateau. And then the Count, left alone, soliloquizes. 
He is determined to go through with his design, but he is 
not in the least blinded to the wronoj he is doinoj : — 

I am a knave, a double-dealing scoundrel, 

To woo one' girl the while I love another, 

For I do love her — 

What should I say of any other man ? 

But then our own misdeeds are quite peculiar, 

White at the edges, shading into darkness, 

Not wholly black like other men's enormities. 

Theirs are the thunder-clouds; ours but the streaks 

Across the setting sun — No, no ! I'm not 

A fool like that. I know full well 'tis base. 

Supremely base; natheless it shall be done. 

If there were time, some other course we might 

Devise; but that's what scoundrels always say — 

If there were time, they would replace, repay, 

In Virtue's silvery path they would walk leisurely. 

I am not duped by that. Seeing it all. 

Foreseeing all the misery, the mischief, 

ril do't, I sa}', and take the guilt upon me. 

She shall be free. 



OULITA THE SERF. 389 

Thus ends the First Act. It has indeed wrought an 
extraordinary change on the Count's feelings and posi- 
tion. The cool, pensive, unenergetic student of theologi- 
cal books, whose great aim was the progress of Russia, 
has had the latent fire of his nature touched at last. 

In the Second Act we have the working of the Count's 
scheme. The hunt is over ; the Prince and Count have 
returned to the chateau. The Small Wise Man has pre- 
ceded them : cautioned the Princess that a merchant has 
arrived to buy Oulita and her fine voice for the Impe- 
rial Opera : advised that Oulita should not sing her best 
in his presence. Stepan, a shrewd fellow, appears : tells 
the Prince he has heard of Oulita, and with many dispar- 
aging remarks, desires to hear her sing. The Count, 
consulted by the Prince, speaks slightingly of Oulita, and 
artfully suggests that the Prince's hunting-ground was 
somewhat hemmed in by an adjoining property, which 
might be bought. Oulita sings : but she has overheard 
the Count's remarks : she now knows who he is, and she 
wilfully sings to the very best of her power. She sings 
two songs : we extract the former as a specimen of the 
author's lyric art. It gives us the story of The End of 
the Rebel Stenko-Razin's Love : a story which is exacily 
true. 

The barge was moored on Volga's shore, the stream 

Went murmuring sorrowfully past, 
The water-lilies played amidst the gleam 

Their golden armor, moon-lit, cast. 

Mute sat the Persian captive by her mate, 

And gazed at her lover askance ; 
A little of love and something of hate 

Were couched in that dubious glance. 

" Base that I am," he cried, " dear stream, to thee, 
Who, rebel too, with -^rilling waves 



390 OULITA THE SERF. 

Hast borne my armies up to victory, 
And floated down the gold and slaves." 

He mused; he turned; and smiling on hercharma 

He met that look of love and hate ; 
Lightly he took her in his mailed arms, 

And casting, left her to her fate. 

One lily more went shimmering 'midst the gleam 

Their golden armor, moon-lit, cast; 
That lily slowly sank beneath the stream; 

Volga went sadly murmurmg past. 

•* Murmur no more," the chief replied, " no more; 

What I. loved best to thee I gave." 
His fierce men shuddered, but from fear forbore 

The Persian lady's life to save. 

The songs are received with great applause, and when 
silence follows Stepan criticizes in true musical cant : — 

There is a something, and there is not a something. There is a 
feeling and there- is not a feeling. But there are makings, makings, 
makings. The G is better than the Freduccini's G. 

And after more in the like tone, he offers the Prince 
thirty thousand roubles. But the old gentleman is so 
vain of Oulita's triumph, that he absolutely refuses to 
part with her on any terms : and thus fails the Count's 
first idea. 

But instant action becomes necessary. The Princess 
upbraids Oulita severely for singing so well, contrary 
to her arrangement ; and goes on to speak of her meet- 
ing the Count in the wood. Oulita replies sharply : the 
Princess sentences her to Mitchka's lash in the morning. 
The Count upon this determines to rescue her that night. 
He is well aware of the risk he runs in the hands of the 
old Prince's vassals ; but will brave it all. Oulita comes 
to him, and begs his intercession for her. He replies 



OULITA THE SERF. 301 

coldly : but conveys in whispered interjected sentences 
his plan for her rescue. A striking scene follows, in which 
Vasili, who thinks he has Oulita in his power, tries en- 
treaties and threats with equal unsuccess to gain her con- 
sent to be his wife. The Count and Ermolai deliberate. 
They have arranged to fire the chateau in the night, and 
carry Oulita away. Ermolai, with his tastes formed un- 
der Griibner, is dehghted with the tact exhibited in the 
Count's plan : and when he leaves to arrange with the 
men, the Count thus speaks : — 

We shall succeed — T will not let a doubt 

Intrude upon my mind, — we shall succeed. 

This one injustice may be remedied. 

But then the things that have been — why they come 

Upon me now I wot not : hideous deeds 

Long numbered with the past. The Earth may smile, 

And deck herself each May, vain thing ! with flowers, 

And seem forgetful of the cruelties 

Enacted on her ever-changing stage, 

Till every spot upon the storied surface 

Is rank with tragic memories: beauteous slaves, 

Like dear Oulita, forced to endure, half-crazed, 

Caresses which the}- loathe — and children slain 

Before their mother's eyes — and women murdered 

(Happy if murdered soon) in the dear presence 

Of those who till that moment ever looked at them 

With reverent tenderness, and now dare not look; 

Whose corded limbs, straining in agony. 

Have lost — the wretch's last resort — the power 

To give them death. 

The earth may smile, I say, 
But like a new-made widow's mirth, it shocks one. 
And she, the earth, should never quit her weeds; 
And should there come a happier race upon her, 
Ever there'll be a sighing of the wind, 
A moaning of the sea, to hint to that 
More favored race what we poor men have suffered. 
There must have been a history, they'll say 
To be interpreted by all these sighs 
And moans. 



392 OULITA THE SERF. 

It is indeed a strange inconsistency, between the beauty 
and gayetj of external nature, and the wickedness and 
misery of man. And it has existed ever since the Fall. 
The Vale of Siddim was '' as the garden of the Lord," 
— fair as another Eden : the black blot there was man. 
And the natural beauty and the human wickedness had 
o be dashed from Creation together. " At that one spot, 
it is far towards four thousand years, since Nature 
bloomed and Man sinned, — for the last time." ^ We 
remember, too, what thought it was that came sadly to 
the mind of Bishop Heber, as he breathed the spicy air 
of Ceylon. Many a sad heart must have felt the sun- 
shine and the green leaves a dreary mockery of the 
gloom wnthin. And how hard it is to feel, that beyond 
that cheerful veil, there is hidden a Being of infinite 
power and infinite justice, who looks down quietly on the 
scene, and lets the world go on ! Well, things will be set 
right some day. 

His plans being thus arranged, the Count proceeds to 
the Hall, where there is a grand banquet. The Gov- 
ernor of the province proposes the health of the Count 
and his afiianced bride, in a speech which is a happy 
imitation, by no means caricatured, of the speeches com- 
mon in England after public dinners. In the middle of 
the banquet, somewhat prematurely, the flames break out. 
Great confusion follows, amid which Stepan bears off 
Oulita. But he is intercepted and brought back by 
Mitchka, who, as well as Vasili, had suspected the 
Count's design. The Count kills Mitchka : then he and 
Stepan bind Vasili, whom the latter must now take with 
him, as a refractory serf. Then the Count hurries Ou* 
lita off, with the words which close the Second Act. 

1 Foster. 



OULITA THE SERF. 393 

I said you should be free, and free you are. 

Your horses wait; the road is clear to Moscow. 

He goes with you {pointing to Stepan), and will insure your safety, 

Nearer: a word ! I loathe this hateful marriage. 

*Tis forced upon me by the Czar. Escape 

I may, and then — 

No ! this is not the time — 
When you are wholly free, you can reject me. 

In the Third Act we are at Moscow. Griibner has 
guessed correctly as to the share the Count had in the 
fire at the Prince's chateau, about which the Prince has 
been constantly complaining to the police. Neither the 
Prince nor Princess has had the slightest suspicion. Ou- 
lita has been safely conveyed to Moscow, and is under the 
Count's care. The Count is maintaining appearances 
with the Princess ; but is afraid of Siberia, to which the 
arson and homicide at the chateau would certainly send 
him, if brought home to him ; and is perplexed how to 
deal honorably with the Princess, whose nature, with its 
fierce mixture of good and evil, is not one to be trifled 
with. Griibner has stated his suspicions to the Princess, 
who resolves to have an explanation with the Count. 
Accordingly, we have a striking scene, in which the 
Princess tells the Count that the police are on Oulita's 
track, and threatens fearful vengeance upon her when 
taken. The Count manfully avows what he has done, 
and leaves the Princess in a whirl of rage. But she ad- 
mires and loves the Count still ; and it is on Oulita that 
she determines her vengeance shall be wreaked. 

However, she relents. A little later, while the Count 
is with Oulita, the police enter the house and seize her, 
to carry her back to Prince Lanskof. But their plans 
are disconcerted by Stepan producing a bill of sale, 
gigned in due form by the Prince, which shows that Ou- 



894 OULITA THE SERF. 

lita has been fairly sold to Stepan. The Princess, at a 
masked ball in the Kremlin, had placed this in the 
Count's hand. The police have to give up their prey. 
And when Grubner enters after a while with a file of 
soldiers, he finds that he is duped, and that Oulita is be- 
jond his reach. 

At the beginning of the Fourth Act, we find that the 
Count feels the meshes of the police closing round him. 
He is in his house at St. Petersburg, when Stepan enters 
to tell him that spies are now watching his house on 
every side. The Count feels that the odds against him 
are too great, and he must be beaten at last. The Czar, 
too, is becoming cold. 

We next find Oulita in a room at St. Petersburg, work- 
ing at embroidery. She is perfectly happy ; but change 
is near. The Small Wise Man has found out her retreat, 
and comes to tell her of the Princess's wrath, and the 
storming and vaporing of her father. And now it breaks 
on poor Oulita's mind what peril the Count is incurring 
for her sake. She resolves to leave him, lest she should 
bring him to ruin ; and as a last resort, asks the Small 
Wise Man to give her poison which she might have 
within her reach. Then a most beautiful scene follows 
between Oulita and the Count. Her eyes, now awak- 
ened, see the traces of ceaseless anxiety and alarm on 
his altered face ; and he, wearied out, falls into deep sleep 
as he is telling her of his travels in other lands. Half- 
awaking, he thinks he is speaking to the Czar, and tells 
him that "if he but knew her, he would pardon all." 
He sinks to sleep again ; and Oulita, resolute, though 
broken-hearted, leaves her farewell written, and hastens 
away. 



OULITA THE SERF. 395 

She has taken a desperate resolution. We next find 
the Princess in her chamber, brooding upon her wrongs, 
and wrought up to a tigress-fury. Even as she is declar- 
ing what fearful vengeance she would take of Oulita, 
Oulita enters and kneels at her feet. The scene which 
follows is one of the most striking in the play ; and the 
more so that our extracts have been only of detached 
speeches, we shall quote this dialogue entire. 

Oulita. 

Madam, an outcast girl implores the pardon 
She dares not hope for. 

Princess. 

Ha ! He has left you then: 
And you return, in those becoming robes, 
To penitence and virtue — rather late, 
Methinks. 

Speak, girl, unless you wish me to call Mitchka. 
Mitchka is dead, you think ; there lives another. 
Say, has the Count forsaken you ? 

Oulita {rising). 

The Count! 
What Count? 

Princess. 

Why this surpasses patience ! What Count, minx, — 

That Count who was to be my husband, wretch; 

That Count who, to his eminent dishonor. 

Stole you away — set fire to his friend's palace — 

Slew that friend's servants — decked you out, great lady 

In this fine garb — who broke his plighted word 

For you, — the Count von Straubenheim. 

Oulita. 

You know, then? 

Princess. 
There is no thread of his and your intrigues 
Unknown to me. He told me of your love. 



396 OULITA THE SERF. 

OULITA. 

Permit me now to speak. Of a return, 

You spoke, to virtue. There is no return. 

A woman might have thought more charitaWy, 

Of any sister-woman, though a serf : 

Madam, there's no return, I say, to virtue, 

And none to penitence, though much to sorrow. 

I loved the Count, 'tis true, yet not to love 

I fled, but to escape a shame one maiden 

Should hardly have inflicted on another. 

I saw the Count again. I listened — who 

Would not? — to his fond words and vows repeated 

To make this slave in other climes his wife. 

But soon the bloodhounds were upon the track. 

I heard, or seemed to hear, the avenger's baying, 

Marked the ignoble lines of care — his care 

For me — indenting that majestic brow: 

'Twas then that I divined his danger, sought 

To save his life, myself surrendering 

To all your sternest cruelty might do. 

I am too late, and am prepared to bear 

The now most thriftless, useless penalty. 

But hear : men are most wayward in their fancies ; 

He should have worshipped at your shrine, great Princess. 

Perhaps it was your very excellence 

Made him decline to such a thing as me. 

He ever spoke of you with tenderest homage. 

Princess. 
He did? 

OULITA. 

He did; and one there was who sat beside him, 
Who joyed to hear your praises, for the Count 
Said ever you were most magnanimous, — 
Great as a foe. and splendid as a friend. 

Princess. 

And nothing else, the while he played with those 
Fair tresses, said the Count, — nothing about 
My furious temper, and the difi'erence 'twixt 
Mine and the soft Oulita's, — nothing, girl? 
Sealing his pretty sayings with a kiss — 
The false, the perjured man. 



OULITA THE SERF. 397 

OULITA. 

Kot false, nor perjured. 

Prlncess. 
Ah, now we stir the meek one. 

OULITA. 

What he said 
In rare disparagement of your great charms, 
Was such indeed as might make any woman 
Desire the more to win the man who said it. — 
By that dread suffering image that looks down 
On us this moment, I would die to win 
His love for you; would worm myself into 
His heart, to find an entrance there for you, 
And thus insure his safety and your joy: 
That safety being — for I'll not deceive you, — 
The chiefest aim in life for me. Dear Princess — 

[Puts Tier arm round the Princess. 
You used to let me call you dear, — be true 
To your great mind. Let's set our women's wits 
To work, to make the man love you. There only 
His safety lies — and there his happiness. 
'Tis you alone are worthy of the Count. 
With you to aid his plans, to fix his purposes, 
Partake success with him, console in failure, 
Cheering with your bright wit his melancholy. 
He will become the greatest man in Russia. 

Princess. 
How blind is pride ! The Count was right, Oulita, 
Were I a man I should have loved you best. 
Save him we will, but not for me, Oulita. 
I am not worthy of him, nor of you. 
Nay, let me kneel to you. Could you but know 
What savage thoughts I've had, you ne'er could love me. 
Let me but kiss — that shudder was not wickedness, — 
I do not grudge his fondness for that cheek. 
I meant that I must love what he had loved, 
And I do love it [Jcisses her]. We'll rest together, dear, 
And early mom shall find us planning rescue. 
His peril is most urgent. I did not 
Betray him ; nay, I saved him once. Your Marie 



398 OULTTA THE SERF. 

Was not in all things bad, — not always wicked. 
Ah, could you but have known, that fatal day 
My heedless passion threatened you with stripes — 

[Puts her hand before her eyes, 
I am ashamed to look at you, and say 

The base word stripes, — could you have known how tenderly 
I felt to you, never so much before. 
And how I roamed and roamed about in agony, 
Contriving some excuse to make you ask 
Your pardon, and none came, you must, you would 
Have pitied me. 

Down at your feet I could have humbly knelt, 
Imploring you to kneel at mine, Oulita; 
Indeed I could. But then my odious pride 
Stiffened my soul again. 

Oulita. 

But more, you say, 
Than ever, then, you loved your own Oulita. 

Princess. 

What is the worth of my love that could do 
So little battle with my pride ? 

Oulita. 

We poor ones, 
Who from our infancy are curbed and bent, 
And bounded in, know little of the pangs 
The great endure in mastering their pride 
Long-seated, deep-engrained. 

Princess. 

Generous Oulita, 
Always some foolish, fond excuse for me, 
I almost feel I love the Count the more 
For being wise and great enough to love thee, 
Discerning thy rare qualities beneath 
The sorry mask of serfdom — 
The world would scarce believe its mocking eyes 
If it could see two women loving madly 
One man, and yet the fonder of each other. 
Is it not so, Oulita? 

Oulita. 

Dearest, it is. 



OULITA THE SERF. 399 

Princess. 

Not dearest^ I must tell the Count if you 
Say that fond word to any other soul. 

[OuLiTA hides her head on the Princess's breast. They 
embrace — they kneel before the image in the corner 
of the room. The curtain falls. 

Thus the noble womanhood of the Princess's nature 
asserts itself; and thus the Fourth Act ends. 

At the beginning of the Fifth Act, the Count, awaking 
from a fearful di'eam, finds Oulita's letter, telling him 
she has fled to save him from ruin, and begging that 
he would never let it be known that he had aided her 
in her escape. Even as he reads it, Griibner and his 
men are upon him. The Count retains his firmness, but 
tells Griibner that he is beaten. He is carried away, to 
be placed before the Czar. 

And now, in Prince Lanskof's house, Oulita meets 
the Small Wise Man, and claims his promise to pro- 
vide her poison. He gives her what, rubbed upon the 
lips, will in three minutes cause death ; but he speaks 
^s follows : — 

Promise me this. Before 
You use this fatal gift of mine, bring back — 
Bring clearly back — to a calm mind, the days 
When first your mother's smile was dear, when first 
She trusted to your care your little brother, 
And anxiously the little nurse upheld 
The child, as you both strayed beside the stream — 
I've often wandered there — which marked your garden, 
To 3^ou a world of waters ; then your father, 
The ponderous man, laid his large hand upon 
Your head, saying you were his wise 'Oulita — 
Then think, was this the end for which they toiled, 
And if, on thinking thus, you can resolve 
In one rash moment to obliterate 

What they so prized — why then God's blessing on vott. 
I can say nothing more. 



400 OULITA THE SERF. 

We are next carried to the palace, where we find the 
Emperor and Grubner in conversation. We find that 
the Count is ah^eady on his way into Siberian exile ; but 
the Emperor, who loves him, bitterly laments that there 
is no loophole for pardoning him. Griibner goes, and 
then a serf almost forces her way into the imperial 
presence. It is Oulita, now resolute in despair. A 
noble scene follows, which we regret we cannot find 
space to extract. She boldly tells the Emperor that 
greater men than the Count have loved where they 
should not ; she justifies the Count against the charge 
of arson and murder ; says Mitchka fell in fair fight ; 
and appealing to the Emperor closely, declares that if 
the Countess whom he loved were sentenced to be 
scourged, and he burnt down a city to save her, she 
w^ould not think less of the Czar. The Czar thinks 
she wishes to follow the Count ; but is astonished when 
he learns that what she wishes is that he should wed the 
Princess. The Emperor gi'asps at the idea : says all 
might then be hushed ; but adds that neither Princess 
nor Count would consent. But the poor Princess, the 
gentle woman at last, has come with Oulita in a page's 
dress ; and when the Emperor asks her if she will marry 
the Count, reminding her at the same time of her own 
slighted affection and her father's wrongs, she replies 
humbly that she will, and not seek his love, nor ask him 
to live with her. The Emperor instantly signs a pardon, 
and tells them to hasten with it along the road to Siberia. 
Still he fears that the Count, however much he loves 
liberty, will hardly make a marriage serve as a means 
of safety. But he bids them God speed, arid says at 
least they may try. 

Then we are at a village on the road to Siberia. 



OULITA THE SERF. 401 

We hear in the distance the " Song of tlie Exiles ; ** 
and a train of exiles enters, among whom is the Count. 
Ermolai is there, kindly attending his fallen master ; and 
the Count eagerly asks him of Oulita. There enter 
Oulita, the Princess veiled, and the Small Wise Man. 
They look anxiously among the prisoners, and at length 
recognize the Count. The Count sees Oulita, and bursts 
into a joyful speech, assuring her that the evil dreaded 
so much dwindles when it haps at last. She tells the 
Count of the conditional pardon she bears, and entreats 
him to marry the Princess. He declares that he is in- 
capable of such baseness. Oulita then brings the Small 
Wise Man, hoping that his reasonings may move the 
Count : but the Count states the case to him ; and he 
declares the Count is right. The Count then speaks to 
Oulita ; says he will yet return and claim her : — 

If not, I have a loving memory always by me, 
Something to think of when I sit beside 
My hut, amidst the unheeded falling snow, 
Of evenings, when my sorry work is done. 
Better so sit, so thinking, than in palaces — 
A thought of inextinguishable baseness 
Fast clinging round the soul. 

Then he asks Oulita if she had often thought of him — 

Once only, Edgar ; — 
But that thought lasted long. 

And still entreating him to wed the Princess, and so 
save himself for usefulness and honor, she applies the 
poison to her lips, and dies as she joins their hands. 
Poor Oulita judged that by thus unselfishly sacrificing 
herself, she would make the Count feel himself free. 

It was a useless sacrifice. He tells the Princess he 
loves her now, for her true love for the dead : but he 
26 



402 OULITA THE SERF. 

has no heart to offer. No word says the Princess, her 
haughty spirit quite cowed and broken ; Ermolai receives 
his master's last request to bury Oulita where she died, 
and to mark her grave ; and as the sad song of the 
exiles is resumed, the Count, seemingly stunned beyond 
present sense of his utter desolation, kisses Oulita's face, 
and resumes his march towards Siberia. Ah, the agony 
and wildness of grief will be upon him to-morrow ! And 
by the fair serf's corpse, in whose sad lot and noblest 
heart we have grown to feel an interest so profound, 
there sits, with covered face, the Small Wise Man ; — a 
jester to smile at no more, but a figure of overwhelming 
pathos. 

Vhonneur oblige ! How hard some men would find it 
to understand the invisible restraints that drove the Count 
into exile, while fortune, fame, and power were beckoning 
him back if he would but come ! And how hard, too, to 
understand Oulita's noble self-devotion ; and the self-de- 
votion of the Princess, scarcely less complete ! 

And now, as we draw our notice of the tragedy to a 
close, we turn over the pages once more : and, as at 
every opening of the volume, our eye falls upon some 
beautiful felicity of expression, some lifelike incident 
that almost startles by the every-day reality it gives the 
story, some thought so deep, gentle, and kind, wherein 
the author's own mind speaks to his reader, — we feel 
how far such an abstract as our space enables us to give, 
falls short of the effect which would be produced by the 
perusal of the play itself on the heart of every gener- 
ous man and gentle woman. We do not think that our 
nerves are shattered into a morbid facility of emotion, 
and the hand that writes these lines is not a woman's 



OULITA THE SERF. 403 

yet we should hardly like to tell how often the tear has 
started as we read this book, — how many hours it kept 
sleep away, — or even how often and how long we have 
paused and mused with the finger in the half-closed vol- 
ume. We do not pretend to much acquaintance with 
stage-craft ; and it is possible enough that the very 
thoughtfulness which makes Oulita so fascinating to 
the solitary scholar, might detract from its power of 
popular effect were it represented on the stage. For 
ourselves, we do not thmk it would. There is incident 
rapid and stirring enough to keep attention ever on the 
stretch : and the reflections are such that while arresting 
the thoughtful reader who can follow the track along 
which they point, they will touch the mind and heart 
of average humanity. Of course, if Hamlet were pub- 
lished at the present day, many critics would call it dull 
and heavy, and many theatrical managers would not risk 
its presentation on their boards. And the variety of 
rhythm and cadence, the occasional abruptness and de- 
viation from common metrical rules, which render the 
versification of a vigorous drama such as some judges 
would call unmusical, seem to our mind a beauty and 
an excellence in verse which is meant to be spoken 
and heard, rather than to be read ; which represents real 
and passing life ; which is put in the mouth of many di- 
verse characters ; and which is to be listened to without 
intermission for two or three successive hours. Smooth- 
ness, in Pope's use of the word, would pall and disgust 
by so long continuance. And only great variety of met- 
rical character — even the occurrence of occasional dis- 
cords — can furnish the similitude of life. When one 
goes to the Opera, one must be content to leave common 
sense at the door, and to take for granted that all that 



404 OULITA THE SERF. 

passes shall go on the basis of an extreme convention* 
alitj. But in the case of a tragedj, if the writing and 
the presentation be worthy, the spectator should forget 
that he is not looking at reality. The author of Oulita 
has kept this in view. Yet w^hile remembering that un- 
varied melody of rhythm would result in satiety and 
tediousness, no one knows better how to add the charm 
of music to thoughts with which it accords. Very beau- 
tifully, in the lines which follow, have we Mr. Thacke- 
ray's ever-recurring philosophy of the affections, even in 
the trimness of modern life : — 

So dear that in the memory she remains, 
Like an old love, who would, indeed, have been 
Our only love, but died ; and all the past 
Is full of her untried perfections, while 
Amidst the unknown recesses of our hearts 
Enthroned she sits, in tenderest mist of thought, 
Like the soft brilliancy of autumn haae, 
Seen at the setting of the sun. 




CHAPTER XIV. 
SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

BEING AN EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF " FRASER's 
MAGAZINE," FROM HIS FRIEND, CHARLES ARDER- 
SIER-MACDONALD, ESQ., OF CRAIG-HOULAKIM, NEAR 
WHISTLE-BINKIE, N. B. 

HEN I was a Country Parson, mj dear 
friend the Editor of a certain eminent maga- 
zine came one autumn to pay me a visit. 
Among my most valued neighbors was a 
certain country squire, whom (for various reasons) I 
shall call Mr. Macdonald of Craig-Houlakim. When 
the Editor and Mr. Macdonald met, it appeared that 
they were old college friends, though they had died out 
of acquaintance for some years. The meeting was a 
very pleasant one : and the Editor was much amused 
by Mr. Macdonald's description of some of our Scotch 
institutions. Mr. Macdonald promised to give the Editor 
an account in writing of some of these : and thus origi- 
nated the following letter. I may say, that in the main, I 
concur in the views it sets out : though they seem to me 
expressed with a little too much vehemence. And let 
me add, that Mr. Macdonald did not reside in my 
parish : so you will not find in his letter any reference 
to me. 



i06 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

Mj Dear Editor, — When you paid us a visit last 
autumn, and renewed so pleasantly an old college ac- 
quaintance which " change of place and change of folk '* 
had interrupted for eight or ten years, you ^vere wont, in 
your usual saturnine vein, to laugh at the completeness 
with which I had fallen into Scotch ways of thinking and 
acting. 1 have indeed become so familiar ^vith the usages 
of my adopted country, that I see nothing very wonderful 
now in things which utterly astonished you, and which 
indeed had a similar effect upon myself when I was a 
freshly-imported Saxon. Quantum miitatiis ab illo, I 
know you thought, who ten years since walked in your 
company the quadrangles of Oxford, bent upon those 
classical studies which (owing entirely to the bad ar- 
rangements of the University) failed to get me so dis- 
tinguished a degree as my sisters and my grandmother 
thought I deserved, — not a little given to Puseyite no- 
tions in church matters, and in a state of total ignorance 
as to Scotch affairs. But time (as philosophers have on 
several occasions observed) works w^onders. It is not yet 
ten years since the death of a distant and eccentric rela- 
tive, whom I had never seen, made me the possessor of 
this property, in a district of Scotland which, I think^ 
yields to none in beauty and interest. It is less than 
that time since I resolved to patch up this quaint old 
baronial dwelling, and make it my head-quarters for tho 
greater part of the year. And I dare say you were sur 
prised to find me so completely transformed into the 
Scotch country squire, — walking you after breakfast 
daily to the staWes, and boring you with long stories 
about the hocks and pasterns of my horses ; not a little 
vain of my turnips ; quite proud of my shaggy little bul- 
locks (finer animals than deer, I always maintain) ; and 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 407 

full of statistics about the yearly growth of my young 
plantations, and the girth of the noble old oaks and 
horse-chestnuts on the lawn. But I am sure you were 
much more surprised to find that I had settled down 
into a douce elder of the Kiik, — quite au fait in Scotch 
ecclesiastical polity, much interested in matters parochial, 
and loud in praise of Professor Robertson and the En- 
dowment Scheme ; and though still a warmly-attached 
member of the Church of England, yet a good Presby- 
terian when in Scotland, and quite persuaded that in all 
essential points the Church of England and the Kirk of 
Scotland are thoroughly at one. I have been fortunate 
in my parish clergyman, whom you met more than once 
w^hile here, and whom you found, I dare say, quite dif- 
ferent from the violent, Covenating, true-blue Knoxite 
you probably expected. You found him, I am sure, 
quite of our w^ay of thinking in regard to most things 
sacred and civil : quite anxious to have his church as 
ecclesiastical in appearance as even Mr. Beckett Denison 
would wish ; quite friendly to the introduction of an or- 
gan ; not hostile to the restoration of the Liturgy ; and, 
indeed, not so much shocked as he ought to have been 
when you and I speculated as to the probable time that 
must elapse before the peaceable reception of episco- 
pal government. Let me add to these points of sesthetic 
nature that, like most of his brethren, he goes through 
all his parochial duties with great assiduity, and conducts 
the church-service of each Sunday with a propriety which 
wouM be excellent even on your side of the Tweed. 
When you w^ent with me to the parish church, you were 
somewhat shocked at seeing the country-people coming 
in with their hats on, and rushino^ out as though the 
place were on fire, the instant the last " Amen " was> 



408 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

spoken ; and I did not expect that you would like the 
bare and bald ritual of the Kirk as much as your own 
beautiful service. Still, in the carefully-prepared prayers 
you heard, there was nothing of that rambling rigmarole 
of extemporaneous extravagance which makes one long 
for a Liturgy to keep people to common sense. And as 
for the sermon you heard from Mr. Smith, I think that, 
save for its not being read, and for a shade more warmth 
of manner in the delivery of it, it was very much such 
as your excellent rector gives you every Sunday morn- 
ing. And though I am not much delighted with some of 
Lord Palmerston's recent ecclesiastical appointments, and 
cannot understand why such men as Mr. Melvill and Mr. 
Chenevix Trench are not raised to the episcopal bench in 
the abundance of recent vacancies, still I have grown so 
much of a Presbyterian in feeling, that I am pleased to 
find a Scotchman, brought up in the Scotch Kirk, made 
your metropolitan bishop. Dr. Tait has, I believe, two 
brothers who are elders of the Kirk ; one of them, Sheriff 
Tait, being a prominent speaker in the General As- 
sembly. 

The change has come upon me by degrees ; and real- 
ly, till you were here in September, I was hardly aware 
how far, by familiarity with Scotch modes of thinking and 
acting, I had grown into a development which must seem 
strange in an old friend's eyes. As you know, I go little 
to England : my wife and weans (the latter of whom 
often loudly express their hope that you will soon come 
back again) are a tie to home ; and one great pl^sure 
of a country life is, that every day of the year, winter as 
well as summer, brings with it something to interest one. 
Horses, cows, pigs, dogs, pheasants, wheat, potatoes, 
newly -plan ted trees and evergreens, are a constant 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 409 

source of occupation : there is always a host of littld 
changes and improvements going on about a country- 
place, which there is a pleasure in overseeing. Yet one 
need not grow^ a mere clod, like some of my thick-headed 
neighbors whom you met, wdio had never heard of Mr. 
Thackeray or of Fraser's Magazine^ and who thought 
that Mr. Ruskin was a slang name for the Emperor of 
Russia. My daily hours of work in my library make me 
enjoy all the more a scamper on horseback, a stroll to 
the home-farm, or a w^alk through the young plantations. 
And notwithstanding your pity for me, cut off, as you 
thought, from the world of intellect, I assure you, my 
dear Editor, when you told me of all your toils and 
cares, pleasant and elevating as they may be, I thought 
it w^ould be well for you, mentally and physically, to 
spend six months at Craig-Houlakim, where your pulse 
w^ould get to beat more leisurely, where the flame of life 
would burn away less fast, and, like wise old Walton, 
you might " study to be quiet." And I put it to you, as 
an intelligeni being, if my ow^n personal appearance did 
not, by its healthy animalism, say a great deal for this 
calm mode of life. I don't think I am any stupider 
than I used to be when we were companions long ago ; 
but am I not twice as strong, twice as active — ay, and 
twice as rosy, though I never drink whiskey-toddy ? 

There, is no doubt of it, my dear fellow, that Scotland 
and England are very diflPerent countries, after all. I do 
not know w^hat may be the particular train of reflection 
which is started in the mind of people in general by wit- 
nessing the departure of the Scotch mail-train from 
Euston-square at nine P. M. ; but for myself, the thought 
which always impresses me is, what opposite states of 
things that train forms a link between. The carriage 



410 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

which bears the little board on its side, with London 
AND Edinburgh, will in the next few hours run not 
merely out of one country into another, with another 
climate and scenery ; but also into another race of men, 
another religion, another church, another law, another 
way of thinking upon all conceivable subjects. Scot- 
land and England, in short, are quite different countries. 
Many things which are quite familiar in each, are un- 
known in the other. And though between the educated 
classes of the two countries there is now much similar- 
ity, still it will be long before electric wires and express 
trains shall assimilate Pall-Mall and Prince's-street, St. 
Giles's and the Goosedubs. 

It has always been an interesting thing to me to wit- 
ness the departure of the great trains for the North. 
My feeling is, that the dignity and poetry of a railway 
train are in direct proportion to the distance it has to 
run. Who cares about the departure of a Greenwich 
train, that will reach its journey's end in ten minutes ? 
It is quite different with one that, after quitting the 
brightly-lighted and bustling station, is to go on and on, 
hour after hour through the long dark night, score after 
score of miles through the wide blank country, and be- 
tween the lights of fifty sleeping towns. By the side of 
the broad smooth platform is the long row of low dark 
carriages, so snug-looking internally with their warm 
lamp-hght, their thick blue cushions, their heaps of 
wraps of all kinds. There is a crowd of passengers hur 
rying to and fro ; a rapid whirl of barrows of luggage ; 
a display of men and women in every variety of dress 
which has the association of warmth. At length we are 
all stowed in our places ; rugs are folded over knees, 
travelling caps are endued, reviews and newspapers are 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 411 

cut up ; and the train is off, gliding with a fluent motion 
through the dark. For an hour or two passengers ready 
and even talk a little ; then gradually drop off into a 
sleep, which is disturbed at intervals through the night 
by the glare and thunder of some passing engine, fear- 
fully snorting and panting, or by the chilly rush of raw 
air as the guard opens the door to ask a sight of the tick- 
ets at some large station on the road. Thus we sweep 
through the rich heart of England : along the valley of 
the Trent — through Staffordshire — through crowded 
Lancashire ; and at length waken to full consciousness 
among the Cumberland hills, where the passing train 
sends the sheep scampering, and startles the hare from 
her resting-place. Then comes the comfortable though 
hurried breakfast in that most baronial refreshment-room 
at Carlisle ; a few miles further on we cross the little 
river Sark, enter Dumfries-shire, and are in Scotland. 
Wild hills yet, which give the new-comer a dreary im- 
pression, and a very unfair one, of the country he has 
entered ; ninety or a hundred miles are rapidly skimmed 
over ; and at the end of twelve or thirteen hours from 
Euston-square, we hear a howling of Embra' or Gleska, 
as the case may be, and we emerge from the carriage to 
which we had grown quite attached, and find ourselves 
in a new world. No educated Englishman needs to be 
told nowadays that Scotchmen do not wear tartan, — that 
the figures one sees at the doors of tobacco-shops in Lon- 
don have no prototypes in the North, — that a kilt is seen 
just as frequently in Regent-street as on the Calton-hill, 
and that those persons who describe themselves when in 
England as The Mac Toddy or The Mac Loskt, 
know rather better than t© make fools of themselves by 
assuming such designations when at home. Still we 



412 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

have things among us here which you know nothing 
about ; and I am going to give you some idea of one or 
two of our " peculiar institutions." I have before my 
eyes the recent fate of Mr. Macaulay, wdien he recorded 
certain unpalatable truths in regard to Scotland, his " re- 
spected mither." But what I say shall be said in all 
good-nature ; and I do not believe that the sensible por- 
tion of my adopted compatriots forms such a genus irrita- 
Ule as you might fancy from reading about the doings of 
the Society for maintaining Scottish Rights. 

Do you remember one morning when you were here, 
the post-bag yielding a Glasgow newspaper, which hav- 
ing glanced at I pitched wath indignation into the fire ? 
The reason was, that it contained a long report of a pro- 
ceeding which no acquaintance with it w^ill ever make tol- 
erable to me, or indeed make anything but revolting and 
disgusting : I mean what is called a Congregational Sou 
ree in the City Hall at Glasgow. Such things are very 
common among the dissenters ; and I am sorry to say 
they are not quite unknown in the church. There are 
some congregations consisting exclusively of the lower 
orders, whose ministers maintain a certain popularity by 
dint of roaring and ranting, and every kind of wretched 
claptrap which appeals to the mob. And these men find 
it expedient to have a soiree (pronounced surree, with a 
strong accent on the latter syllable) annually. I need 
not tell you that the more dignified and respectable 
among the clergy utterly abhor such things. I could no 
more fancy my excellent friend, Dr. Muir of Edinburgh, 
spouting nonsense on a platform to excite the laughter 
of maid-servants, than I could picture the Archbishop of 
Canterbury preaching while standing on his head. But 
let me try to give you some idea of what the thing is. 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 413 

I have had occasion once or twice to see the City Hall 
at Glasgow. Whenever the freedom of the city is given 
to any eminent man, the ceremony takes place there, the 
Lord Provost making a speech on the occasion. It is a 
large ugly building, in a street called the Candleriggs, 
which runs out of the Trongate, the main artery of 
Glasgow traffic. It is very large, holding some three or 
four thousand people. It is simply a huge square room, 
with a flat ceiling. Galleries surround it on three sides : 
on the fourth side is a large platform, backed by a fine 
organ. It has a cheerful appearance, being painted 
throughout in white and gold. This Hall is used for 
all kinds of purposes ; the Corporation, very shabbily I 
think, making a profit by letting it out to any one who 
may want it. There the Wizard of the North was wont 
for many a day to perform his tricks : there did Mr. Bar- 
num exhibit Tom Thumb : there have Jenny Lind and 
Grisi sung ; there does Jullien yearly give a course of 
concerts : there has Kossuth spoken, and there Mr. 
Macaulay, Lord Elgin, the Duke of Argyle, Mr. Dick- 
ens, and a greater man than all. Sir Archibald Alison : 
there has Mr. George Thompson howled : there has the 
Anti-State-Church Association made itself ridiculous : 
there next day have the friends of the Kirk rallied by 
thousands ; and on the day after, the advocates of the 
Democratic and Social Republic: there have been held 
cattle-show dinners and Crimean banquets ; and there 
soirees in honor of all sorts and conditions of men, from 
Mrs. Beecher Stowe down to Mr. Stiggins (who became 
a dissenting minister in Whistlebinkie after his historic 
kicking by the senior Mr.-Weller) : and after this pleas- 
ing variety of engagements during the week, the Hall ia 
'et for divine service on Sunday. There hath the Eev 



414 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

Dr. Bahoo wept, and the Rev. Mr. Spurgeon bellowed 
there hath a young scamp of ten years old preached to 
a congregation of thousands ; and thence hath the Rev. 
Mr. McQuack retired with a collection of £3 155. 2fd 
for the mission to send flannel waistcoats and moral 
pocket-handkerchiefs to the uninstructed Howowows. 

The first announcement of the approaching festival is 
an advertisement in the Glasgow newspapers that a Con- 
gregational Soiree of St. Gideon's Church will be held 
in the City Hall upon a certain evening : The Rev- Dr. 
Bahoo, M. A., D. D., LL.D., in the chair. Addresses 
will be delivered by the Rev. Melchisedec Howler, the 
Rev. Jeremy Diddler (Missionary to Borrioboolagha), the 
Rev. Roaring Buckie (of Yellington-cum-Bellow), the 
Rev. Soapy Sneaky (domestic chaplain to the Hon. 
Scapegrace Blackleg), and the Rev. Mountybanke Buf- 
fune. By the kind permission of Col. Blazes, the band 
of the gallant 969th will attend. Tickets, including a 
paper of sweeties, a cooky, two figs, and five cups of tea, 
price, eight pence each. N. B. — A collection at the 
door, to prevent confusion. 

The proceedings begin at six o'clock upon the ap- 
pointed evening, by which hour the people are seated 
at long tables arranged in the Hall, displaying a large 
assortment of tea-cups of many varied patterns. Each 
person on entering has received a paper-bag, containing 
the promised cooky (you would call it a penny-bun), the 
figs, and the sweeties. The platform is covered with men, 
the leading individuals of the congregation, and the speak- 
ers of the evening. That is Mr. Soapy Sneaky, with the 
long lank hair, the blue spectacles, and the diabolical 
squint. That fat, round little man is Dr. Bahoo, already 
affected to tears by the contemplation of so many tea* 



SOME TA..K ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 415 

cups, and by the reflection that they will all be broken 
within the next hundred years. That is Melchisedec 
Howler, w^ith tremendously-developed jaws and a bull- 
neck, but hardly any perceptible forehead. And that 
is Mr. Buckie, with the apoplectic face, and corpulent 
figure. P^irst, a Psalm is sung ; then a long prayer is 
offered. The band of the 969th then plays a polka. 
Next greasy men go round, and pour tea of uninviting 
appearance out of large kettles into the numberless lea- 
cups. The men on the platform partake of the same 
cheering beverage. A great clatter of crockery is heard : 
many of the guests, ere they have finished their fifth 
cup (they are breakfast-cups) become visibly distended : 
most of the children find it expedient to stand up. Tea 
being over, the military band plays the " March of the 
Cameron Men," or '^ Bonnie Dundee," amid great shout- 
ing and stamping. The Rev. Dr. Bahoo, the minister 
of the congregation, then gets up and makes a speech in 
the nature of a sermon, with a few jokes thrown in. The 
reverend gentleman gets much excited. He frequently 
weeps during his speech, and in a little laughs again. He 
tells the people how hawppee he is to see them awl: 
how many additional seats have been let in St. Gideon's 
Church during the past year: how many scores of 
Sawba schule teachers and Sawba scholars are connected 
with the congregation. A Psalm is then sung by the 
people : a polka follows : then there is a pause to allow 
the figs to be eaten. Then the Rev. Melchisedec Howler 
addresses the meeting. He shouts and stamps : he bel- 
lows out his ungrammatical fustian with perfect confi- 
dence. Happy man, he is so great a fool that he has 
not the faintest suspicion that he is a fool at all. Streams 
of perspiration flow down his face. In leaving the Hall, 



416 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

you will hear the general remark among the enlightened 
audience, " Wasna' yon gran' ? " '' Oh, but he swat ex- 
traor dinar.'' Tlie meeting goes on for three or four 
hours, with the same strange jumble of prayers and 
polkas, religion and buffoonery, tears of penitence and 
roars of laughter. At length, about ten or eleven at 
night, after three cheers for the chairman, the benedic- 
tion is pronounced, and the festival is ended. 

Well, my dear Editor, is not that a peculiar institution, 
with a vengeance ? I assure you I am not exaggerating 
or caricaturing, in my description of the hateful exhibi- 
tion. Anything more irreverent and revolting than what 
I have myself witnessed (for I went out of curiosity to 
two or three such scenes) cannot be. I have seen cler- 
gymen say and do things at them which were just as de- 
grading as if they had shaved their heads, painted their 
faces with ochre, put on a spangled dress, and tumbled 
head over heels. I have stated that the more staid and 
reputable clergy utterly eschew such meetings : most of 
the ministers who appear at them are men prepared to 
have recourse to the very lowest and most contemptible 
means in order to gain a wretched popularity with the 
least intelligent of the community. Don't you feel that 
Dr. Bahoo and Mr. Howler would preach standing on 
their heads, if that would draw a crowd to the scene of 
their buffooneries ? Don't you feel that they would sev- 
erally sing Hot codlins from the pulpit, rather than see 
the boxes deserted and the pit empty ? They are simply 
tenth-rate melodramatic actors ; and I will speak of them 
as. such. 

Now for another Scotch peculiarity. 

I remember well your look of amazement when, one 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 417 

day as we drove past a whitewashed barn a few miles off, 
I said to you, " That is the parish church of Timmer- 
stane-parva." You thought at first that I wished to prac- 
tise on your creduHty, in return for certain wricked mys- 
tifications which you practised upon me in our college 
days. But I spoke in sober sadness. We have abun- 
dance of churches in Scotland which no mortal would ever 
guess were churches ; buildings without one trace of 
Christian character ; whitewashed barns externally, with 
a belfry at one end ; and internally, just four walls and a 
flat roof, with a higgledy-piggledy of rickety pews, and 
a rude box at one end to serve for a pulpit. Now I have 
no doubt that you thought all this was the remaining 
leaven of the sour Puritan spirit : and that you supposed 
that the mass of the Scotch people really think that God 
is most likely to be worshipped in sincerity between walls 
green with damp and streaming with moisture, and under 
a flat ceiling whence large pieces of plaster are wont to 
detach themselves during divine service. You w^ere 
quite mistaken if you took up any such impression. 
There are one or two bigoted sects which have inherited 
the spirit of the Covenanters, among which a good deal 
of stupid prejudice still lingers ; and the people of these 
sects would very probably prefer Timmerstane Kirk to 
York Minster. But I am sure the well-filled pews you 
saw in our parish church testify that Scotch people will 
come very willingly to a decent church when they can 
find one ; and if you knew what frantic efforts the dis- 
sentinor cono-reorations in laro-e towns make to imitate our 
cathedrals in cheap lath-and-plaster Gothic, you would 
be convinced that it is no preference for shabbiness and 
dirt on the part of the people that keeps numbers of 
Scotch kirks the disreputable places they are. No, my 
27 



418 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

dear Editor ; I wish to reveal to you, and through you to 
your countless readers, including so great a portion of the 
intelligence and refinement of England, what is the real 
blight of Scotch church architecture. It is, in brief, the 
abominable, mean, dirty, and contemptible shabbiness and 
parsimony of a great many of the heritors of Scotland. 
But what are the heritors^ you will say, and what have 
they ^o do with the churches? I will tell you all about 
it. 

The heritors of a parish are the proprietors of land 
within it. They are bound by law to build and main- 
tain the church and parsonage. They likewise pay the 
stipend of the clergyman. Now, of course, when they 
or their fathers bought their estates, they got them for so 
much less in consideration of these circumstances. The 
primary charge upon all the land of Scotland is the 
Church Establishment ; and in rendering its due to the 
church, the heritors are simply fulfilling the condition ou 
which they hold their property, — doing what it would 
be dishonest not to do ; and they are, manifestly, no more 
entitled to take credit for maintaining the church and 
clergyman, than the farmer is entitled to flap his wings 
and cry aloud, " I am a virtuous man ; I am a hero in 
morality ; I actually pay my landlord his rent ! " Now 
many heritors forget all this: they fancy that the church 
is a burden upon them ; and they endeavor by every 
shabby dodge to render that burden as light as possible. 
You see I don't spare the class to which I myself belong: 
as a general rule, in all church matters, we are about as 
mean a set as you can find in Europe. Very many of 
us are dipped in debt, and are struggling to maintain an 
appearance quite beyond our means. I have in my 
mind's eye at this moment at least a score of men who 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES 419 

are the very ideal of Mr. Thackeray's Country Snoh. 
We really have not a sixpence to spare ; and we must 
save all we can off the Kirk. And the rascally barns 
which in so many places do duty as parish churches, tes- 
tify to our shabbiness and that of our fathers. No doubt 
there are many noble exceptions to what I have been 
saying. Here and there one finds a really beautiful and 
ecclesiastical church, testifying to the liberality of Mr. 
Stirling of Keir, Mr. Tyndall Bruce of Falkland, or 
Colonel Cathcart of Craigengillan. And the Duke of 
Buccleugh, a nobleman in the best sense of the phrase, 
is a splendid instance of liberality in all church matters. 
A writer in The Times told us lately that we country 
gentlemen of Scotland were such a race of snobs, that 
if the duke became a Mormon, we should all believe in 
Joe Smith too. I have no doubt a great many of us 
would. But you won't find us imitating that eminent 
personage when the act to be imitated consists in putting 
our hand in our pocket. No : we are independent men, 
who think for ourselves when it comes to that! And an 
especial evil is, that at a meeting of the heritors of a 
parish, each person has an equal voice. A man with 
ten thousand a year has one vote only, and so has the 
proprietor of a pigsty. Neighboring proprietors don't 
like to come to loggerheads, and divisions are avoided at 
such meetings. And so, as the weakest link in a chain 
is the limit of its strength, the shabbiest heritor at a 
meeting is generally the limit of its liberality. 

I have been reading with great interest and pleasure 
Mr. Beckett Denison's Lectures on Church-building, If 
that accomplished gentleman would pay me a visit, I 
think I could astonish him. I could show him men, pass- 
ably intelligent on other topics, who in the matter of 



420 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

church-building utterly gainsay and deny those elemen* 
tary principles which appear to Mr. Denison and myself 
as indisputable as any axiom in morals. I will back a 
meeting of Scotch heritors against any collection of men 
anyw^here in the w^orld, for dense ignorance, dogged ob- 
stinacy, and comfortable self-conceit. I should imagine 
the feelings of a man driving a large flock of refractory 
pigs to market, must be much what mine were when I 
first set to w^ork to persuade my brother heritors of this 
parish to build the handsome church you saw here. I 
don't believe that Lord Clarendon needed more diplo- 
matic skill to manage matters at the Paris Congress, 
than was requisite to talk over some of the miserable 
little scrubs of small proprietors into common sense. 

The upshot was, that Sir and I agreed to bear 

the entire expense, provided the matter were left to our 
own mpnagement. About two thirds of the parish belong 
to us ; the remainder being parcelled out among some 
five-and-forty heritors. We paid the share of these men 
in addition to our own ; and though they were not in- 
volved in the w^ork to the extent of a sixpence, they still 
cast every vexatious annoyance in our w^ay. 

Let me try to give you an idea of a meeting of heri- 
tors. It is heJd in the church. About ten minutes be- 
fore the appointed hour, w^e see three or four blue-nosed 
pragmatical booking old fellow^s approaching, arrayed in 
long browr great-coats of remote antiquity, each man 
wearing a shocking bad hat. These are some of the 
smaller heritors, each possessor of a few bare acres of 
moor-land in some wdld part of the parish. They are 
certainly Dissenters, probably Cameronians ; and quite 
rf.ady sit a w^ord to smite the prophets of Baal, as they 
would call your amiable bishop or your good rector. 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 421 

They look around in a hostile and perverse manner, and 
snufF the air like wild asses' colts. A little after comes a 
man with a red pimply face, a hoarse voice, and a bul- 
lying manner. He is the factor of some proprietor who 
is ashamed to do dirty work himself, but does not ob- 
ject to having it done for him. Then comes a little 
withered anatomy of a man, a retired Manchester trades- 
man, \<^ho has bought a few fields, planted them with 
hoaks and hashes, and built there an Ouse from his own 
design, a great work of hart. Half-a-dozen more blue- 
nosed small heritors, two or three more factors, and one 
or two gentlemen, complete the meeting. Suppose they 
are examining the drawings of the new kirk. Oh, rare 
are their critical remarks. 

" Aw doant see ony need for a speere," says one low 
fellow. " Whawt 's that croass doin' aboove the gabble ? " 
says another ; " we're no gangin' to hawve a rawg o' 
papistry in this pawrish." " If that's the way to build a 
church," says a pig-headed blockhead who never saw a 
decent church in his life, " I know nothing aboot church- 
building." Sober truth the creature utters ; but he fan- 
cies he is talking sarcastically. Something is said of an 
open roof. " Wha ever saw a roof like thawt?" says 
one of the blue-nosed men ; " thawt's jist like maw barrrn." 
A Cameronian elder says, in a discordant whine, " Goad 
is to be wurshupped in spurrit and in trewth : whawt 
house will ye big unto him ? Habakkuk thirteenth and 
llfth." '* Stained glass," says a pert little shopkeeper 
from Whistlebinkie, " is essentially Popish and Anti- 
christ." Finally a burst of coarse laughter follows the 
witticism, from an individual with a strong smell of whis- 
key, — "If Mr. Macdoanald* wants the kirk sae fine, 
let him pye for it himself. Aw heer he was bred at 



422 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

Ooxfurd ; maybe he wants us a' to turn prelatists. Ha 
had better gang awa' bawk to Inglan' wi* his papish 
notions." At this juncture the honorable proprietor's 
utterance becomes indistinct, and in a little a loud snor- 
ing proclaims that he is asleep. While the discussion is 
going on, some of the heritors are spitting emulouslj at 
a pew door about a dozen feet off. They generally hit 
it, with a dexterity resulting from long practice. 

What wonder if educated men and gentlemen avoid 
such meetings ? And thus, unhappily, the management 
of matters falls into the hands of some blowsy village 
demagogue, whose impertinence has driven the squire 
or baronet of the parish away ; or of two or three of the 
withered old Cameronians with the long brown great- 
coats. 

The Scotch are not a demonstrative race. I do not 
believe that among our laboring class here in the coun- 
try, there is any want of real heart and feeling; but 
there is a great awkwardness and stiffness in the expres- 
sion of it. People here do not give utterance to their 
emotion like your volatile Frenchman : they have not 
words to say what they feel ; and they would be ashamed 
{hlate, in their own phrase) to use these words if they 
had them. I have had a touching instance of this within 
the last few days. Do you remember our taking a walk 
together one beautiful afternoon to the cottage of one of 
my people, a poor fellow who was dying of consumption ? 
You sat upon a stile, I recollect, and read a proof, while 
I went in and sat with him for a few minutes. It seemed 
to cheer him a little to have a visit from the laird, and I 
often went to see him. After you left us he sank gradu- 
ally, — it was just the old story of that hopeless malady, 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 423 

— till at last, after a few days in bed, he died. I hate 
all cant and false pretence ; but there was earnest reality 
in the simple faith which made my humble friend's last 
hours so calm and hopeful. When he felt himself dying 
he sent for me, and I went and stayed beside him for 
several hours. The clergyman's house was some miles 
off; and apart from private regard, it was a part of my 
duty as an elder of the kirk to go and pray as well as I 
could with the poor fellow. He was only thirty-two, but 
he had been married eight or nine years, and he had four 
little children. After lying silent for a while, he said he 
would like to see them again ; and his wife brought them 
to his bedside. I know well that no dying father ever 
felt a more hearty affection for the little things he was 
leaving behind, or a more sincere desire for their welfare 
after he had left them. He was not so weak but that he 
could speak quite distinctly ; and I thought that he would 
try and say something to them in the way of a parting 
advice, were it only to bid them be good children, and he 
kind and obedient to their mother. Yet all he did was 
just to shake each of the three elder children by the hand, 
and to say Gude-day, As for the youngest, a wee thin^ 
of two years old, he said to it, " Will you gie me a bit 
kiss ? " and the mother lifted up the wondering child to 
do so. " Say Ta-ta to your feyther," she said. " Ta-ta/* 
said the poor little boy, in a loud, cheerful voice, and theo 
ran out of the cottage to play with some companions. 

The story, I feel, is nothing to tell ; but the little scene 
affected me much. I believe I have told you the exact 
words that were said ; and then the dying man turned 
away his face and closed his ejes^y and I saw many tears 
running down his thin cheeks. I knew it was the very 
abundance of that poor man's heart that choked his utter- 



424 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

ance, and brought down his last farewell to a common 
place greeting like that with which he might have parted 
from a neighbor for a few hours. Gude-day was his 
farewell for ever ! He felt that he had so very much to 
saj, that he did not know where to begin it ; and so his 
weary heart shrank from the task, and he said almost 
nothing. I thought how^ your friend Mr. Tennyson could 
have interpreted that Gude-day. How much of unutter- 
able affection — how much of good advice and fatherly 
warning. — how much of prayer for them to the great 
Father of the orphans — was implied in poor David's 
Gude-day 1 

I read a paragraph in The Times, a few weeks since, 
in w^hich it was stated that the late Bishop of London 
had informed a certain congregation, which had the choice 
of its clergyman, that he would not upon any account per- 
mit a succession of candidates for the living to preach in 
the parish church. I think the Bishop was right. There 
is something most degrading to the clerical character, and 
inconsistent with the nature of preaching, in the practice 
of persons " holding forth " to a congregation to let the 
people see how well they can do it, the congregation 
meanwhile sitting in a critical and judicial capacity. And 
I lament to tell you that what is a very rare and excep- 
tional thing in England, is a very common thing in Scot- 
land — the practice o^ hearing candidates, as it is termed. 
You are aware that, at different periods, a great row has 
been made in this country about the existence of church 
patronage ; the people always agitating to get the selec- 
tion of their ministers put in their own hands. In one 
shape or another, this agitation has been the source of all 
the secessions from the Scotch Kirk. Ever since the 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 425 

great secession in 1843, most patrons have been anxious 
to make popular appointments, for fear of driving the 
people away from church to some of the multitudinous 
neighboring conventicles ; and instead of directly present- 
ing a clergyman to a vacant benefice, they have in some 
way consulted the wishes of the parishioners. In the 
case of the parish in which I reside, and of which I pos- 
sess the patronage, I did not take this course. I took 
every pains to find a clergyman who should be a good 
preacher, a scholar, and a gentleman ; and then I pre- 
sented him without consulting the people in any way. I 
knew thoroughly that, had I given them their choice, I 
should simply have been devolving my privilege of ap- 
pointing a minister upon Smout the baker, Swipes the 
publican, and Muttonhead the butcher. They would, to 
a certainty, have directed the judgment of the humbler 
parishioners ; and I conceived myself to be a more com- 
petent judge of clerical qualifications than these gentle- 
men. And though the people grumbled a little at first, 
their good sense and Mr. Smith's faithfulness triumphed 
in the long run, and he is now extremely popular with all 
classes. I did not choose to allow Smout, Swipes, and 
Muttonhead to give me for a parish clergyman some bel- 
lowing boor, whom I should have been ashamed to ask to 
meet my friends at my table. 

When a patron is more desirous of immediate popu- 
larity than I was, he follows one of two courses : he ap- 
points three or four individuals, each of whom he thinks 
suitable for the cure, and allows the people to select one 
of these ; or he says to the parishioners, " You may nom- 
inate three clergymen, and I shall take my choice of 
these." The former course, which is called " giving a 
leet," is the more usual, I believe. In either case, a 



426 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

preaching-match follows, and the people select by com- 
parative trial. In the case of some town churches, where 
the congregations have the entire matter in their own 
hands, with no patron to keep them within reasonable 
limits, forty or fifty candidates have sometimes been 
heard. Then, by a process of elimination, that number 
IS reduced to two or three ; these two or three are asked 
to preach a second time ; and, finally, the election is com- 
pleted, amid all the degrading circumstances which attend 
most contested elections. Don't crow over us, my dear 
Oliver, for I see that you have lately had in London a 
similar discreditable course of procedure. 

Each of the competing candidates of course does his 
best to make a favorable impression. With congrega- 
tions of the lower orders the victory lies with him who 
possesses the strongest lungs and the emptiest head. It 
is a great stroke in preaching as a candidate to repeat 
the sermon entirely from memory ; a successful claptrap 
is to shut the Bible with a bang immediately after giving 
out the text. It very generally happens that the upshot 
is the division of the parishioners into two violently 
opposed parties ; the educated and respectable people 
declaring for some preacher of cultivated mind and gen- 
tleman-like manner, and the lower classes for some huge, 
raw-boned, yelling, and perspiring animal, with intense 
vulgarity in his every tone and gesture, whom they re- 
gard as one of themselves. After some weeks of excite- 
ment and diplomacy, something like unanimity is gen- 
erally arrived at ; the patron generally holding it in 
terrorem over the people, that if they do not agree with- 
in a given time, he will appoint a minister without con- 
sulting them. The hearing -candidate system has a most 
degrading effect upon those preachers who seek to get 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 427 

preferment by it. It tempts directly to every coarse ex* 
pedient for pulpit effect, and every sneaky means to gain 
the private good-will of the rabble. Still the system 
works in practice a shade better than might be antici- 
pated a priori ; and though sometimes permanent splits 
result, the minority going off to the Dissenting meeting- 
house, yet this is far from being the general rule. I 
need not tell you that no clergyman of any standing 
would " preach as a candidate " for any living. Candi- 
date preachers are for the most part drawn from the 
class of newly-fledged licentiates ; and from that species 
of much-perspiring, loud-howling, flabby-faced, and big- 
jawed preachers, who formed the dunces of the philoso- 
phy-classes at college, and who now constitute the parlia- 
mentary train of the Kirk. 

I have been so little in England of late years, that I 
do not know whether the institution which I am about to 
describe is a Scotch peculiarity, or whether it exists on 
your side of the border : I mean what may be called the 
testimonial nuisance. There is hardly anybody left in 
this country who has not had a snuff-box, watch and 
chain, purse of sovereigns, tea-kettle, claret-jug, book- 
case, gig-whip, saddle and bridle, pony, horse, cow, pig, 
dog-cart, set of harness, timepiece, Matthew Henry's 
Commentary on the Scriptures^ load of meal, cart of po- 
tatoes, pig's face, German-silver pencil-case, everlasting 
gold pen, pulpit-gown and cassock, case of mathematical 
instruments, tea-tray, set of teacups, dozen of teaspoons, 
dozen of shirts, dozen of pocket handkerchiefs, or dozen 
of flannel waistcoats, presented to him by a circle of 
friends and admirers, and the presentation chronicled at 
great length in the local newspaper. Country gentlemen, 



428 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

clergymen, railway guards, drivers of stage-coaches, 
gamekeepers, shepherds, local poetasters, farmers, news- 
paper reporters, keepers of public-houses, schoolmasters, 
turnpike-gatekeepers, railway signal-men, stokers of 
coasting steamers, are among the people most frequently 
honored in this way. When a testimonial is presented 
to a man in the humbler walks of life, it is usually fol- 
lowed by a supper, concerning which the Whistlehmkie 
Gazette never fails to record that the arrangements re- 
flected the utmost credit on mine host of the Blue Boar ; 
the evening was spent most harmoniously, Mr. Ronald 
McCracken favoring the company with his favorite song, 
*' Jenny dang the weaver ; " and at a late hour all parties 
went home, " happy to meet, sorry to part, and happy to 
meet again." Whenever a new minister comes to any 
parish, on the day of his induction he is presented with 
a superb pulpit gown (made by Messrs. Roderick, Doo, 
and Co., our enterprising fellow-townsmen), and a pulpit 
Bible and psalm-book (purchased at the establishment of 
Mr. McLamroch, bookseller, 91, High-street). On going 
away, he receives a timepiece or silver salver, (furnished, 
we understand, by Messrs. Waxy and Jollikin, Chrono- 
meter-makers, Saltergate) ; and if a poor man, perhaps 
a purse of sovereigns (the purse made by the fair fin- 
gers of Miss Jemima McCorkle, daughter of the much 
esteemed surgeon of that name). The handsome gift 
(we invariably learn) was presented in a few brief but 
pithy remarks by Mr. James Mc William, farmer in 
Cleugh-Lochacher ; and the reverend gentleman, who 
appeared much overcome by his feelings, made an affect- 
ing and suitable reply. Occasionally we find it recorded 
that the tenantry on the estate of Netherwoodie and 
Clanjamfry proceeded to the Mansion House, and pre- 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 429 

Bented Skipness Alexander Skipness, Esq., their esteemctd 
landlord, with his portrait, drawn in the first style of art 
by Cosmo Saunders, Esq., R. S. A. They likewise pre- 
sented an elegant cairngorm brooch to Mrs. Skipness ; a 
whip to Master Sholto Skipness Skipness ; and a hum- 
ming top to Master Reginald Comyne Skipness, the lat- 
ter gentleman aged one year and eiglit months. Mr. 
Skipness, much affected (recipients of testimonials in 
this country are always much affected), made a suitable 
reply. He felt his merits were greatly over-estimated. 
If indeed it w^ere true that he had been the first to in- 
troduce into the county an improved breed of pigs, he 
had his reward in the wdiisperings of an approving con- 
science. Turnips had for years occupied much of his 
attention ; nor had cheese passed without many serious 
thoughts. Onions and carrots, he might say, had rarely 
been absent from his mind. Still, much remained to be 
done. There was no limit to the fat which might be 
carried by the Clanjamfry breed of cattle ; and whatever 
might be the feeling of others, he, for one, would always 
connect the gimmers and hogs of this district with the 
future prosperity of the country. The tenantry were 
then entertained at the hospitable board of Netherwoodie, 
and left at a late hour, having spent an evening which 
will long be cherished as a green spot in memory's wasta. 
Do you remember one morning glancing over the 
Whistlehinhie Guardian, and reckoning up thirty-eight 
testimonials w^hich had been presented in the preceding 
\veek to different individuals in the county ? I doubt 
not that, in your simplicity, you fancied that this district 
contained an immense number of deserving characters, 
surrounded by a most generous public. Quite a mistake. 
Most of the recipients deserved nothing particular : most 



430 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

of the subscribers were lugged into giving sorely against 
their will. Let me explain to you the philosophy of the 
matter. A, let us say, wants a testimonial for himself 
It would not do, however, to endeavor directly to get one 
up. A therefore goes to B, and proposes to get up a 
testimonial to C. Now C never did anything remark- 
able in all his life ; and B does not want to give him 
anything. But it would be a most invidious thing to re- 
fuse to subscribe : and so, for fear of giving offence, B, 
D, E, F, G, and H, severally put down their shilling or 
their pound, as the case may be : the present is given ; 
the supper or dinner comes off; and the Gazette and 
Guardian report the proceedings. In a few months C, 
who has been made aware who it was that set his own 
testimonial on foot, feels himself called upon to get up 
one to A. Then B gets up one to D ; D reciprocates ; 
and so on all round. Thus, you see, the balance of 
property in the district is not disturbed ; for each man 
gets as much as he gives. Neither are people's relative 
positions and estimations altered ; for no man is distin- 
guished above his neighbor. The secret vanity of each 
individual is gratified : a kindly spirit is maintained in 
the neighborhood ; and in the long run the truth is not 
prejudiced, for these testimonials come to be valued at 
pretty nearly what they are worth. 

The mention of testimonials reminds me of another 
Scotch peculiarity, about which I may tell you some- 
thing. All sorts of people in this country are fond of 
making what they call a collection of testimonials or 
certificates, setting forth their qualifications and merits. 
They apply to any one who may be in a prominent posi- 
tion, whether he knows much of them or not ; and re- 
ceive a sheet of note-paper inscribed with the most out- 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 431 

rageous and exaggerated compliments. Each person 
who is asked to give a certificate considers what good 
qualities the man ought to have in order to be fit for the 
place he is aiming at, or what good qualities the man 
w^ould like to be thought to possess ; and incontinently 
sets his signature to a declaration that the man does pos- 
sess the very highest degree of all these good qualities, 
A really profligate disregard of truth prevails in Scot- 
land as to this matter. One constantly finds men, even 
of established reputation, asserting in written testimonials 
what, if you ask them their real opinion in private, they 
will confess to you is absurd and untrue. We all under- 
stand that in newspaper reports all sermons are eloquent 
and impressive, all landlords are liberal, all county mem- 
bers are unweared in their attention to their duties, all 
professors are learned, all divines are pious, all magis- 
trates are worthy, all military men are gallant, all royal 
dukes are illustrious. We all understand what such 
statements are worth ; nor does any man but the most 
verdant care a straw for the critical notices of the 
Whistlehinkie Gazette^ which assure us that Mr, Snooks, 
the local poet, is a much greater man than Mr. Tenny- 
son ; and that Mr. Green, our talented young townsman, 
has already surpassed Turner as a landscape-painter. I 
don't suppose that you are much elevated when " the 
Guardian of our county town declares, at the beginning 
of a month, that " Fraser holds on its w'ay with a ringing 
and jubilant wildness and manliness of fierceness and ter- 
ror," — whatever all that may mean, which I confess I 
don't know. But the Scotch system of exaggerated and 
(in short) false declarations, made by grave divines and 
high-spirited gentlemen, as to the qualifications of Smith, 
Jones, and Eobinson, ought to be put dow^n. It deceives 



432 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

and misleads : it is calculated and, I believe, intended to 
deceive and mislead. I feel strongly on the subject, for I 
take a warm interest in the schools of this parish ; and 
when I first came here, 1 was most thoroughly taken in by 
the flaming characters which several teachers brought, 
who afterwards proved shamefully incompetent. A lad 
of very deficient intellect and education, and quite devoid 
of common sense, applying for a teacher's place, comes 
with a 'long array of testimonials from clergymen and 
professors, which, if true, would prove him a prodigy of 
talent, industry, amiability, and all other virtues under 
heaven. An extremely bad preacher and wretched 
scholar, applying for a living (I had no end of such 
applications when this parish was vacant), brings with 
him testimonials which tend to show that the human race 
cannot be expected to produce many such wonders in a 
single century. The result of all this is, that written 
testimonials now mostly go for nothing — at least, with 
people of any experience. They are sometimes even re- 
garded with suspicion. If a teacher in a parish school 
becomes a candidate for another parish school, and brings 
with him a very high certificate from the heritors and 
clergyman of the parish where he is at present, the fear 
is that they have given him this strong recommendation 
in order to get rid of him. , 

A story is told apropos of this. A teacher came to the 
parish of X, bringing an immensely strong certificate from 
the parish of Y, in which he was at present settled. On 
the strength of this certificate, the heritors of X elected 
him to their vacant school. It should be mentioned that 
the parishes of X and Y are many miles apart. The 
teacher began his work at X, and speedily proved worth 
nothing — a lazy, stupid, useless incubus on the parish. 



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 435 

One of the heritors of X met a heritor of Y, and inquired, 
with some indignation, what on earth the heritors of Y 
meant by giving such a flaming certificate to an utterly 
incapable teacher ? " Why/' said Mr. Y, with great cool- 
ness, " We gave that certificate to get you to take him off 
our hands ; and, let me tell you, you people of X will 
have to give him a far higher character before you will 
get rid of him ! " 

I do not vouch for the story's truth : and I believe that 
good-nature, and unwillingness to give pain by a refusal, 
are the origin of most of these undeserved panegyrics. 
When a poor fellow asks you to give a certificate of fit- 
ness for some place for which you know he is not fit, but 
which he has yet set his heart on, it is hard to say no. 
The temptation is strong to stretch a point in order to say 
a good word for him ; or at any rate to write a few sen- 
tences which, without meaning anything, sound as though 
they meant something in his praise. 

And now, my dear fellow, I dare say you are wearied 
df all this gossip about our Scotch Peculiarities. I have 
A vast deal more to say, but^ I think I had better stop for 
^he present. I hope soon to see you here again. It is 
curious how arbitrarily the memory singles out little inci- 
dents and keeps them vividly alive, when worthier things 
Aave perished. When I look back upon your late visit 
^o us, I am ashamed to say that the thing which comes out 
in strongest relief is, not any of your wise and witty say- 
mgs, not any of your philosophical reflections, not any 
of the grand or beautiful scenes on which we looked 
together. None of these : but I see you yet, with a 
doubtful expression on your usually serene face, eating 
a plate of oatmeal porridge, and assuring my wife that 
you liked it. Well I knew that in your secret soul you 
28 



434 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 

would rather have read the very dullest article in the 
Balaam-box. 

Believe me, 

Ever your sincere friend, 

C. A. M 

Craig-Houlakim, 
November 24th, 1856. 



CONCLUSION. 




HESE were the kind of thoughts that passed 
through my mind in the leisure hours of 
various months in town. The hours, in- 
deed, in which I have been free from the 
pressure of duty, were short ; and they were not many : 
yet, by regular use, one may turn even these to some ac- 
count. All kinds of hours, morning and evening, of every 
day of the week except Saturday and Sunday, have gone 
to the production of these pages. I have not an ever- 
green now, though I have planted so many ; nor am I the 
possessor of a single tree of any kind. And when I go 
and visit the pleasant homes of certain friendly country 
parsons, I feel my loss ; and I sigh a little for the 
days that are gone. And so these pages have not 
been thought out amid the sunshiny and breezy places 
where I wrote certain other pages which possibly you 
have read. Many of them were thought out by a city 
fireside ; some of them in solitary half-hour walks on 
quiet winter evenings in a certain broad gas-lit street, re- 
markable for that absence of passers-by which is charac- 
teristic of many of the streets of this beautiful city. But 
especially I remember many restful hours, happily com- 
bining duty with leisure, which are within the reach of 
every unambitious Scotch clergyman. I mean the hours 



436 CONCLUSION. 

which on one day in each month he may spend in attend- 
ing the Presbytery to which he belongs. The Presby- 
tery, possibly you do not know, is a court of the Scotch 
Church; consisting of the clergymen of a number of 
adjoining parishes, with a lay member from each parish 
besides. This court exercises over a certain district of 
country the authority which in England is exercised by 
a Bishop. It is the duty of every member to be pres-< 
ent : so that while attending its sittings you have a pleas- 
ant sense that you are in the way of your duty. The 
business of this Ecclesiastical Court is of deep interest 
to those who feel a deep interest in it. And a weighty 
responsibility rests with those members of it whose ex- 
perience and administrative ability are such as entitle 
them and fit them to lead their brethren. But a good 
many of the clergy, especially of the younger clergy, 
have no vocation that way : and the very eloquent and 
remarkably long speeches which are often made, would 
be somewhat wearisome if you tried to listen to them. 
But if you do not try to listen to them, unless at some 
specially interesting juncture, or when some one is speak- 
ing whose words carry special weight, you may have 
many hours of leisure there ; and think of material for 
various chapters like those you have been reading. I 
have found my hours at the Presbytery very favorable to 
contemplation, as well as a delightful rest to body and 
mind. You are in the path of duty : and yet you feel 
that your insignificance makes your responsibility quite 
inappreciable. You do your work, we may hope, as a 
parish clergyman, diligently and not unsuccessfully. But 
as an ecclesiastical lawyer and legislator, in all probabil- 
ity, your influence is very properly at zero. You have 
entire confidence that the affairs of the district are being 



CONCLUSION. 



437 



managed by wise and good men, who are your seniors in 
age and your superiors in wisdom. So you may enjoy 
a day of rest : and of rest happily combined with duty, 
I have a very great veneration and affection for the 
Church of England : but I do not think that grand Estab- 
lishment affords her clergy any season, recurring regularly 
and not unfrequently, during which they may feel that 
they are attending to their clerical duty, while yet they 
are quite free from any sense of responsibility, and from 
any feeling that they are doing anything whatever. 

And so I commend these chapters to the kindly reader 
hoping that they are not the last. 



THE END. 




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Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: March 2009 

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